Enough To Make You Laugh
by Chasing Rabbits
Summary: Stan Marsh doesn't exactly have the sunniest disposition. With a wedding around the corner, he's thrust back into a life with the worst people he knows: his family. Luckily, he has a few good friends to help him keep his optimism alive and kicking. Style.
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys... I have some Style for you. Not only Style, but _multi-chapter_ Style. Be still your beating hearts.

I have ideas, and I'm excited.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

It all starts with Stan getting evicted from his apartment.

It's not because he won't pay his rent on time, or because he's a rude neighbor —everyone in the building actually gets along with him really well and thinks he's a really nice boy—but because his landlord had warned him _ad nauseam_ about having dogs and Stan systematically refused to get rid of his latest rescue. He's a big bear of a Rottweiler Stan has affectionately named Hawkeye, to pal around with his other rather impish rescue, a German Shepherd that had come to him with the name of Trapper. Hiding two dogs of that size had been no easy feat.

Hence, the eviction.

He's not upset—he got caught fair and square, and for as much of a fucking inconvenience as it is he can't really find it in himself to be mad—it's just… fuck, now he's stuck back at his mom's house without an end in sight.

And he doesn't mind living with his mom. Really, he doesn't. Over the years he and his mom have grown closer, especially since the divorce. She and Randy had finally split after Shelly went off to college, around when Stan had been sixteen. Admittedly (as horrible as it had been), Stan had chosen sides in a big way. He'd spent the majority of his life believing his mother to be the only saving grace of sanity in this family, that he'd inherited whatever semblances of calm and logic he had from her, and plus? The alternative was _Randy_. No thanks.

No, he doesn't mind being around her, because he loves her, but… shit, he just doesn't want to be twenty-three and living with his mom again, especially since he's been a young man of independent means for the last three years.

This is why he calls up Butters—Butters has the remarkable ability to put things into perspective for Stan in a way that almost no one else can. He's not entirely sure of what gives Butters such insight, but Stan suspects it has something to do with the fact that he gets fucked on a regular basis. This is more than Stan can say for himself at the moment, and so it's safe to assume that Butters' brain isn't as cluttered and fogged over as Stan's is. Clarity is just something he needs to remember exists, even if he can't quite grasp it himself at the moment.

Butters meets him outside his apartment, all smiles in his dark grey pea coat, with two to-go cups in hand—chai tea for himself and peppermint latte for Stan, because it's wintertime and if there's one thing Stan loves it's peppermint lattes during Christmastime.

"Thanks, dude," Stan accepts the piping hot paper cup with a smile. Butters beams back and shoves his free hand into his coat pocket as they start walking. It's icy and gray outside—and Stan hates to admit it but it kind of fits his mood. It's not angry or windy or raging, it's just fucking gloomy.

"I'm awful sorry about you gettin' kicked outta your apartment, Stan," Butters says, his voice thick with the remainder of the cold he's had all week.

"Why?" Stan asks automatically. "It's not your fault… just kinda shitty."

"I s'pose," Butters nods, although he looks a little too concerned by Stan's response for this to be going anywhere good. Just because he has the ability to pick Stan up when he's down doesn't mean Stan wants that right now. Butters, apart from being entirely insightful, is actually the only person who will let Stan bitch at him for an extended period of time without making him feel like a total asshole.

"What?" Stan asks when he sees Butters looking at him with that stupid face of his, the one that still hasn't lost its boyish features or sincerity. Stan's not sure how he's managed to keep this whole visage of perpetual happiness going, especially after his dad flat-out left him and his mom got sent to the loony bin a few years ago. He doesn't understand how people like Butters keep such a positive attitude without imbibing unhealthy amounts of liquor.

"Well," Butters begins, like he's thinking really hard about what to say next. He's always so careful with his words. He still likes to give off the notion that he's being thoughtful and considerate, even though what's coming will probably be anything but. "It's just that… you kinda worry me. You know I wouldn't say nothin' if I didn't think it was a-a big deal, but it's gettin' harder an' harder to tell if you're just bein' sarcastic or if I should put you on suicide watch."

Stan sighs and runs his free hand over his face. He only vaguely notices that he's getting a little scruffy in facial hair department over the words 'suicide watch' ringing in his ears, pealing like the bells of fucking Notre Dame.

He was put on suicide watch once in the eighth grade—he'd sent a rather lengthy email to Kyle about how much his life sucked, how he was sorry for being such a shitty friend, how he probably would've been better off finding a new best friend, and Sheila had seen it (read it over Kyle's shoulder, he later found out) and taken it to heart. Of course, Sheila being Sheila, she'd insisted Sharon be overcautious.

It had only been a few weeks, but by no means had it been a pleasant experience Stan strived to have again, so mostly he kept his mouth shut when he was feeling glum.

"I'm fine, Butters," he finally decides to reply, and silently begs whatever deity up there to let this be the end of it.

Of course, it's not, because this is Butters and nothing ever has a fucking end with him. He runs his hand through his short cropped blonde hair (that he's somehow managed to style in the gayest fucking way possible) and bites his lip. He knows he's treading on rough ground; Stan can see him struggling out of the corner of his eye, wondering what to say next. God, this isn't like Butters—or maybe Stan's just hoping for a quick fix to a problem he doesn't have: He's going to live with his mom. There's nothing to be solved there, other than the problem of Stan's complete and utter lack of a desire to do so. That's it. Other than this hiccup, everything will proceed just as shittily as it has for the last twenty-three years of his miserable fucking existence.

"I-I know you really hate when I say this an' all," Butters begins again, and when he feels that Stan isn't listening (which he kind of isn't), he jogs ahead a few paces and starts walking backwards right in front of him. Stan marvels at this guy's agility sometimes—dancing's really paid off for him in that department.

"Listening?"

"Yeah, sure," Stan sips at his coffee again.

"Good," Butters nods, "because I don't think it'll kill you to try an' look at the bright side on this one. You don't have to cook anymore, 'cause your mom'll do it for you; you don't have to worry about payin' rent or nothin', 'cause your mom owns the place—"

"You know this just makes me want to punch you in the mouth, right?" Stan asks blankly, and Butters rolls his eyes.

"Like you got the guts, pussy," he shoots back. Stan smiles, because that? That's one hundred percent Kenny McCormick right there. Maybe not the conviction behind the words, because Butters has always been one of the most passionately dedicated people Stan knows, but the words themselves. They make Stan roll his eyes and stop walking, which makes Butters give him a confused look. He then realizes that they've stopped right in front of his apartment building and gives a bashful smile. Stan snorts—Butters kind of a ditz sometimes (and ditz is the only appropriate word for it), but it's part of his charm.

Butters unlocks the door, shoving his shoulder into it a bit when it sticks, and he and Stan walk the three flights up to his and Kenny's apartment. They've been living together since they were eighteen, and as far as Stan knows they've been fucking since at least two years ago. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't Stan's only real friends left in South Park, but they are and Stan has (regrettably) become the permanent third wheel.

When they get into their actual apartment, a shitty little studio they can barely afford on their combined incomes, the last thing Stan expects to see is exactly what's in front of him: Kenny watching his older-than-dirt copy of _Batman: The Movie_, fully clothed, with a can of TAB in one hand and a box of Cheez-Its in his lap. Stan doesn't know why he expected to walk in on Kenny spread out on the bed with a vibrating butt-plug up his ass, but he can't pretend he doesn't have reasons to believe that's a possibility. He's walked in on Kenny and Butters doing plenty of worse things before and it's the main reason he systematically refuses to sit on their armchair.

"Ahh," Kenny smiles when he sees Butters and Stan come in the front door. "My youthful ward has returned!"

"Hey, Ken," Butters grins back and goes to give him a peck on the lips. Stan wrinkles his nose and averts his eyes.

It's not that he has a problem with them being gay with each other—everyone's a little gay, he's come to determine, and he's learned to stop taking his body's reactions to people's varying degrees of attractiveness personally—but displays of affection really put him off. He doesn't want to blame it on his mom and Randy's divorce, but he sort of totally does. Watching his parents kiss each other and be loving when he knew for a fact that they resented the fuck out of each other had made Stan really uneasy, and even if he knows that Kenny and Butters aren't faking, that they actually love the ever-loving fuck out of each other, it still makes Stan's skin crawl.

Then he reminds himself that it's just a kiss, that they're even being uncharacteristically considerate and sparing the use of _tongue_, and moves to sit on the couch beside Kenny.

"Okay, be honest, guys," Kenny says as Butters slumps down into the armchair adjacent them and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. "Catwoman: Julie Newmar, Lee Meriwether, Eartha Kitt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Halle Berry, or Anne Hathaway?"

"Eh, Lee Meriwether I guess," Stan replies, then adds as an afterthought, "or Anne Hathaway. I've got a thing for brunettes."

"Michelle Pfeiffer," Butters says. "Got a thing for blondes."

He and Kenny high-five on that one, and Stan can't help but think it's the most annoying thing ever. They're so comfortable with each other, so at home just being on their own and living their lives, and it makes Stan a little green with envy… and nausea.

"Only I think I'd actually go for Halle Berry on this one," Butters says after another few moments of consideration. "Not gonna lie, I'd do horrible, horrible things to that woman if I had the chance."

"I knew I loved you for a reason," Kenny grins, and Stan sees Butters give an affectionate roll of his eyes before he knocks his bright yellow converse shoes up against Kenny's big bulky boots. Stan sees this and knows that he's never felt more alone than he does right now.

"So," Kenny says, bringing Stan out of his thoughts and back into the cheesy colorfulness of the film at which he's been staring. He looks over at Kenny, who's attempting to look sympathetic underneath his multitude of facial piercings, and raises his eyebrows.

"You're kind of quiet over there," he hears Kenny say. Stan looks over at him, not entirely sure of what exactly he's expecting, and lets out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"I—" he starts, but when Kenny's eyebrows perk up in that automatic 'I'm listening' way, Stan retracts and slumps forward. He scratches the back of his head, like he's not sure whether or not he's going to say anything, before he decides to dismiss it. "Whatever, I feel like a fuckhead and you probably don't want to hear it, so."

"Probably not," Kenny shrugs and shoves his hands into his sweater pockets. "But, like, eviction aside… I dunno, how're you doing?"

"Fine," Stan shrugs automatically and picks at his fingernails. He actually really doesn't want to have anything to do with this conversation right now.

"Work is fine?" Kenny asks. Stan shrugs again. He works at Park County Middle School, playing piano for the choir and for school productions and shit like that—this week they offered to let him succeed the music teacher, a woman well-past her expiration date who was set to retire (or die, most likely) next year, if he agreed to finish school and get credentialed.

He's not so sure he should be responsible for shaping the minds of America's future.

"Yeah, I guess work's okay," he shrugs. He'd actually rather be doing something that would allow him to curl up under his desk and hide for hours at a time, but he guesses cracking wise with twelve-year-olds and telling them to pipe the fuck down when they get rowdy is an acceptable alternative for now.

"And dude, your mom's the fucking tits," Kenny says, like he's going through a list in his head of everything that could possibly be bothering Stan. "She let me live with you guys for, like, two weeks when my parents kicked me out. Didn't ask for rent or tell me I had to leave or anything. She's not gonna harp on you like Sheila would, you know?"

Stan snorted. Sheila, as kind as she was to both Kenny and Stan in their times of hardship, was slightly overbearing (to say the least). Stan and Kenny knew it was because she cared, but neither Kenny nor Stan was used to someone caring quite so much in quite the way that Sheila did.

"I know, dude," Stan sighs and curls up on one side of the couch. "It's like—I don't have any fucking reason to feel so shitty. I just do, you know?" Kenny nods and slides off the armchair so he can crawl back onto the couch and get much too close to Stan for comfort. He has the inverse of Stan's problem; where everyone's always too close for Stan, no one's ever close enough for Kenny.

"Everyone's got their shit, dude," Kenny says, wrapping one of his scrawny arms around Stan's shoulders and resting their heads together. Stan almost wants to blame the affectionateness on Butters, but Kenny has cuddled up to Stan for years, has even kissed him a few times when they were both drunk and high and Stan was in need of a little love. Kenny's like Butters in that respect—he's good at knowing what people need, even if not everyone is great at knowing what he needs in return—and Stan figures that might be why they work like they do.

"It's human," Kenny continues when he realizes Stan's not going to reply, "sadness, anger, anxiety… it's human to feel all that shit. The world builds up a stigma that we should be happy all the time—"

"A 'stigma', are you fucking serious?" Stan asks through an eye roll, but Kenny only presses him harder into the armrest and continues like Stan hasn't interrupted him.

"—when it's totally normal for us to go through cycles," he finishes. "But, like… if it's getting bad again, maybe you should talk to someone?"

Stan shifts at this. He hates the thought of therapy, if only because he's been through the song and dance before and everyone was immensely unhelpful. They put him on meds when he was seventeen, and they'd definitely helped, but when it came right down to it no one had really helped him work through any of the causes. That meant he'd just gone back to feeling intensely shitty when he stopped taking them.

"Yeah, I'm probably not gonna do that," Stan admits, focusing on the TV instead of Kenny pushing away from him, apparently as fed up as Stan suspects everyone is with him. Kenny never gets fed up with him, though. Kyle, Cartman, Wendy, and just about everyone else, sure, but Kenny never had. Fuck, he must've been getting bad.

"Just a fucking suggestion," Kenny says, like he's not bothered at all. "Just remember, if you ever feel like killing yourself again—"

"Fuck, dude!"

"—that you'll let me know," Kenny finishes. "Because I not only provide wonderful psychological services—"

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"—but I am also available for sexual healing."

"You have a boyfriend, dude!" Stan exclaims, knowing full well that he's giving Kenny a look now. Kenny ignores it, just looks over his shoulder to where Butters is fiddling around with pots and pans in the kitchen, and calls over to him,

"If Stan was about to kill himself, and the only thing standing between him and death was me making sweet, sweet love to his ass, would you let me?"

"Only if you let me film it," Butters tosses back absently, without even thinking about it, looking now at a recipe on the counter.

"See?" Kenny grins, and some part of Stan wonders where in the hell these two came from. They're far too happy for the shit they've had to put up with in their respective lives. Maybe they 're different when it's just the two of them, when they don't have to bother pretending to be functional for the sake of people like Stan, who is, he's convinced, the very picture of dysfunction.

"Well," Stan says, pushing himself up to his feet. "Not that this wasn't awesome, but I've gotta go pack… or something."

"Don't you want some dinner?" Butters asks, walking back over to their living area and looking very obviously concerned. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up around his elbows, which obviously indicates that he's now in the serious business of cooking. Kenny's giving him an imploring look, and any other day Stan would've caved. Butters makes fucking incredible food and Stan's the worst at refusing incredible food (and in fact it's starting to catch up with him in the form of a fine layer of chub around his midsection).

"I should get going," Stan says instead, shaking his head and stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. "Thanks, though." And then he interjects a "and I promise I'll call if I try to kill myself," before Kenny can even mention it.

"That's all I ask," he says, and with that Stan leaves to walk back to his apartment.

He doesn't think too much, just focuses on the endless stretch of grey concrete beneath his feet and wonders, for about the billionth time, what it's like to not have this overwhelming feeling of melancholy burrowed deep within his chest. With every step he thinks that, just once, he'd like to know what it's like to be a regular human being with regular human being worries. He tries to remember being a kid, dicking around with Kenny and Kyle and Cartman, tries to find some semblance of normalcy he can grab onto and cultivate, but there's nothing.

He keeps walking, entirely aware that he's no longer en route to his apartment, but in fact on his way to Stark's Pond. He hasn't been there since the summer after senior year, since Kyle left. They spent the night before his flight to Massachusetts here, he, Kenny, and Kyle, drinking Jack out of a flask, getting high, and setting off every last one of Kenny's firecrackers. They'd passed out in the back of Stan's Jeep Cherokee, the three of them smelling like whiskey and smoke and… fuck, that's the last time Stan can remember being actually _happy_.

He's felt happiness since then, sure, but there's feeling and then there's _being_. And it's the fact Stan's so far from _being_ happy that's actually way more depressing than the depressive feelings he's been having.

He slumps down onto the bench by the lake and wishes like hell that he hadn't left his flask at home. He's been drinking too much again, he knows he has. He'd like to say that he can't help it, even though he knows he can and that he's making excuses for himself. Every time he's this sober he always vows to lay off, that this last binge was his absolute last, but it never is. Isn't that always the case? The minute you swear you'll never do something again, you automatically sign your death warrant. Stan's been swearing to cut back on the booze for years—the longest he's ever made it is a month, and he'd celebrated this achievement by getting blackout drunk and spending an entire weekend in his apartment.

That had been a fun one.

Stan huffs, a visible puff of breath making its way into the air before him, and looks down the street. It's pretty quiet, like it usually is in South Park around this time of day. Most everyone's eating dinner—including Kenny and Butters, probably, who're more than likely eating something spectacular by now—and Stan, of course, is sitting on a bench by himself like the ray of sunshine that he is.

He sees a jogger out of the corner of his eye and snorts, letting his eyes slip shut as he tries to focus on the sound of the wind whipping through the trees behind him. Sometimes that helps, reminding himself of the beauty in nature and shit like that.

Most of the time it just opens up a window of opportunity for people to disturb him, though.

"Stan?"

It's a voice familiar in timbre, one that makes Stan's gut give a nervous twist as he opens his eyes. He makes the connection half a second before he hears himself ask, "Kyle?"

A beat passes, they both stare at each other, and suddenly Stan finds himself leaping up off of the bench and tackling Kyle to the ground behind him. Kyle is hot and sweaty—when the fuck had he taken up jogging?—but Stan doesn't care. It was hard at first, really fucking hard actually, being away from him, and this is probably the third or fourth time he's seen Kyle in person since he first left, but… fuck, there's something about Kyle that will always snap Stan back into being a kid again, no matter how long it's been since they've actually been together.

"Ow, you fucker!" Kyle laughs as he rubs at the back of his head. He must've knocked it against the ground or something… Stan's actually far too preoccupied to care because Kyle's _here_. He's in South Park, he's back with Stan. If you asked him, Kyle was right back where he belonged.

"Don't call me 'fucker', fucker," Stan socks him on the shoulder and laughs because Kyle laughs even harder and pushes him off of him. "Since when the fuck are you back?" he asks, brushing the grass off of his knees as Kyle sits up.

"Since yesterday," Kyle admits as he pulls a few leaves out of his hair and stands. He extends a hand to Stan and Stan takes it, grunting as Kyle yanks him up with a little more ease than either of them expected. He's all red in the face and sweaty; his hair, even though cut relatively short, is curling where it meets his damp skin; his sweats and t-shirt, one Stan had sent him from UCD before he'd dropped out. Stan still has the one Kyle sent him from MIT that he wore around campus forever after he got it, just to piss people off.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Stan asks. It's the next question that crops up into his brain, and he speaks it before he realizes the implications behind it.

Kyle had come home without telling him. What the hell?

"I didn't tell anyone," Kyle rotates his arm around. "I was gonna call you tonight after I was done running, though."

"Queer-mo," Stan laughs, "when the fuck did you start running?"

"Uh, since it's good for me," Kyle mocks back and pulls a face that makes Stan sock him on the shoulder again. Kyle grabs his shoulder and socks him back, "maybe 'cause I don't wanna get fat like you, asshat."

"I'm not fat!" Stan exclaims, pretending to be offended because it makes Kyle laugh and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ compares to being able to make Kyle laugh. Because Kyle is the funniest person Stan knows and he always will be.

"Come on, dude," Kyle tosses his head back to the sidewalk. "Walk with me."

And it's in that moment, with Kyle's smile tugging at his cheeks and red hair frizzing out every which way, that Stan really sees how much older he looks. Before now, the last time he'd seen Kyle in person had been around Christmas time two years ago. They've talked on the phone since then, and Skyped fairly regularly, but right now, in the flesh, Kyle looks like an actual adult.

Stan finds himself wondering if he looks like one too, and actually worrying that he doesn't.

"Dude, what the fuck," Stan laughs as Kyle mimes throwing a rope around him and tugging him forward. He pokes his tongue out of his mouth, like he's really concentrating on making the mime work, and Stan laughs even harder. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hustling you along," Kyle replies, which sets Stan in motion with a quick flip of his middle finger. Kyle laughs, one of those totally dopey laughs that he always lets slip when he's insanely happy about something, and drapes an arm around Stan's shoulders. Kyle's still taller than him, but only by about half an inch if Stan has to guess. He's leaner, though, and that's always given people the illusion that he's inches taller, which just plain isn't true.

"How the fuck've you been?" Stan finds himself asking as they walk down the street together, like they would've done years before.

"Good," Kyle nods, like he's trying to pack up every response that he could give, that he wants to give, into one box and give it to Stan. Kyle's always been that way, though—he could go on at length about 'the issues' (ugh, he's so his mother's son that it's not even funny), but when it came to talking, just him and Stan, he was a man of few words. Stan didn't mind it—usually he did enough pissheaded talking for the both of them.

"What brought you back home?" Stan asks, ducking under Kyle's arm when he sees a car coming down the street. He's getting a little squirmy anyway.

"Oh, uh," Kyle frowns now. "Just… some stuff with my mom. She hasn't been feeling very well lately."

"Oh shit," Stan says, his own face falling now. "Shit, dude, I didn't know." Fuck, how did he not know about this? He and Kenny should've been the first to fucking hear about this shit, so they could… like, bring her soup and get her dry-cleaning or whatever. Stan'd run errands for Sheila in a fucking heartbeat.

"She hasn't really told anyone," Kyle shrugs. "I mean, aside from my dad and Ike and me, I mean. They're both really busy, though, and they couldn't really help her like she needed, so I'm here now."

"Dude," Stan replies, because it's the only way he can without saying something completely retarded. "Does she know what's wrong?"

"No, not yet," Kyle's face pinches slightly. Shit, he must be worried.

"Well, like," Stan begins and feels his shoulders come up under his ears. "Let me know if you need any help, okay? Seriously, that sucks."

"Thanks, man," Kyle gives him a little smile that kind of warms Stan up to his core. He can't remember the last time a smile had such a profound effect on him.

"What happened to work, though?" Stan asks now, feeling a little interrogative, but he knows Kyle won't care as long as he doesn't ask him about his mom anymore. Kyle's one of those few people who can actually deal with onslaughts of questions, mostly because he's so quick enough to reply that it takes so much more to wear him down.

"Oh, I work from home anyway," Kyle shrugs. "Most of my clients I can consult by phone and work on their stuff from my computer, and if they really need someone they can get another guy from the firm to go and fix 'em up."

"Oo, _clients_," Stan bounces his eyebrows. Kyle snorts and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweats.

"Yes," he says in mock seriousness, "because everyone knows that IT men are known for their harrowing and rallying efforts in cocksmithery. 'Computer won't turn on? How 'bout I turn _you_ on instead?'"

Stan barks out a laugh when Kyle finishes with an exaggerated thrust of his hips, one that eighteen-year-old Kyle would have blushed at the thought of making out in the open, where anyone could see. It feels a little like a weight's been lifted from Stan's shoulders—he feels kind of like he did in high school, when Kyle stopped being such a twit about everything and actually started taking his depression seriously, like everything still sucked, but it was bearable with someone like Kyle around.

He's probably not going to tell Kyle how happy he is that he's back, though, because that's just a little too gay for them and, judging by the way Kyle's smiling again, he already knows how missed he was.

They continue walking through the new additions to town, Stan pointing out a new building or a change in business every once in a while, until they get to Stan's complex. They walk up the two flights of stairs, passing a few of Stan's elderly neighbors on the way and giving them pleasant regards as they walk by, and Stan actually goes red in the face when he realizes that he forgot to take down the eviction notice from his door.

"Holy shit, dude," Kyle says, snatching the paper before Stan can get his mitts on it. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Stan shakes his head tiredly as he unlocks his door. "My landlord found Trapper and Hawkeye."

"Shit," Kyle's eyebrows pinch together, handing the paper back to Stan as he steps over the threshold. "Dude…" he hears Kyle say as he looked around. His life is, more or less, in boxes. He has a few more things to take care of, but the living room and kitchen are pretty much gutted of all of his stuff. Not that he has a lot, but still… it looks empty.

"Fuck it," Stan shakes it off and went to the kitchen. He grabs a bottle of Myer's out of the freezer and a thing of orange juice out of his fridge and holds them both up for Kyle to see. He then gets a pair of mismatched glasses—okay, they're re-used plastic cups, but fuck you—out of his cabinet and pours a hefty amount of rum into both. "You want?"

"I'll just take some juice," Kyle shakes his head.

"Fair enough," Stan shrugs and pours the contents of one of the glasses into the other. He's just about to pour the juice when Kyle catches him.

"Dude put, like, half of that back," he says, that look of 'you should know better' etched onto his face. Stan rolls his eyes, but Kyle is remarkable in his ability to get Stan to stop being a fuckhead, so he pours a good amount of the liquor back into the bottle before adding any juice to either cup. They each take their cups and flop down on the couch, cheap and hard but that's a condition of a pre-furnished apartment, Stan thinks, before clacking their cups together and taking a drink.

"Oo, there's a little bit of rum still in the cup," Kyle sighs happily and looks at the cup itself. "Disposable cups… you are classy as fuck, dude."

Stan smiles, warmth of the alcohol already spreading through his limbs. He's not entirely sure why he opted for it in the first place, now that he's drinking it—hanging with Kyle essentially gives him the same feelings, and it's not even like Kyle is drinking either. It's probably just habitual now, which… isn't great, but at least it wasn't because he _couldn't go on_ or some other painfully pathetic bullshit.

"Where're you staying?" Kyle finally asks. He's been wanting to ask—Stan could feel it.

"With my mom," Stan replies automatically. Ugh, it's so painful to say.

"Shit," Kyle laughs. "You can't stay with Kenny and Butters?"

"Seriously?" Stan's eyebrows fly up on his forehead as he looks Kyle up and down. "Have you _seen_ the atrocity that is those two together? Love 'em and all that shit, but Christ, that entire apartment _has_ to be covered in bodily fluids."

Kyle throws his head back and laughs, something that probably wouldn't have made any difference to Stan if he hadn't seen Kyle's neck out of the corner of his eye, long and sinewy and looking entirely… something. Something, at least, that makes Stan swallow a lump in his throat.

They finish their drinks and Kyle decides, being the decent human being that he is, to help Stan pack up the last few of his boxes. There isn't much left, but Kyle's convinced that that'll occupy enough time for Stan to sober up enough to drive him home.

"I'm fucking fine, dude," Stan shakes his head as Kyle starts packing up a few of Stan's music books. "If you wanna go home now I'll take you home."

"Dude, it's cool," Kyle shrugs. "I may as well help you while I'm here."

"Are you implying that I can't pack on my own?" Stan raises his eyebrows, and Kyle looks up at him, a laugh pulling at the corners of his lips as he gives Stan a very frank look.

"I've been on camping trips with you, dude," he says. "I _know_ you can't pack."

Stan flips him off again, but goes to help anyway. They have the rest of his shit packed up in a matter of a few hours, which is miraculous, seeing how it'd taken Stan at least ten times as long to pack up everything else before it. They load up Stan's car after that, since Stan had planned on taking all his shit to his mom's tomorrow anyway, and it's actually fucking nice to be around someone who's willing to help him out like this.

Plus, having someone there who talks animatedly in various voices and accents around Stan's neighbors kind of makes it a more bearable experience. By the time they're done Stan is… fuck, he's legitimately ready to leave. Kyle gives him a smile, eyebrows pinching together a little again as he leans on the side of Stan's car.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Nothing," Stan shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I'm moving back in with my mom. What do you think's up?"

Kyle laughs and looks down at his sneakers.

"Okay, fair enough," he says and looks back up. It could be the weird lighting in the parking garage, or the remaining alcohol in his system, but there's something about Kyle's eyes that makes Stan's blood go kind of hot. He shakes it off, like so many other things, and pretends to be paying attention when Kyle continues, "but if you need to escape… y'know, everything still stands. We just got a new air mattress… I mean, I don't wanna brag, but my dad's been doing pretty well for himself."

Stan snorts and tosses his head toward the Jeep.

"Get in, I'll take you home," he says. Kyle gives him a smile and pats the side of the car before he piles in. They drive through South Park mostly in silence, but that's okay because they've been friends long enough to the point where conversation doesn't really matter. Let's face it, this isn't nearly as awkward as it could be and Stan's fucking grateful as shit for that. It could never be awkward between them, Stan thinks.

"So," Kyle begins, "any luck in the lady department?"

Okay, so the whole awkward bit was a lie. Kyle likes to check up on him periodically in this department, and Stan figures he must be right about due for his six month check up or something ridiculous like that. He coughs, because Kyle's one of those people who's very straightforward and clinical about sex and Stan has always had some fucked up thing about not being able to talk about it like he should be able to. It's kind of maddening, but every time he even tries to say the word 'pussy' in a sexual context he gets all tongue-tied and red in the face.

Growing up with Kenny and Kyle as best friends, he literally does not know how this is possible.

"A bit," he finally resolves himself to say. "Slept with a girl a little while back. Uh, how're you doing?"

"Fine," Kyle shrugs and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. "Jerked off a guy a few weeks ago."

Stan actually slams on his breaks at that and comes very, very close to getting rear-ended if the way he's being honked at is any indication. He looks over at Kyle, who's inspecting his fingernails like they've still got the guy's spunk caked into the cuticles.

"How the fuck am I just hearing this now?" he asks, and Kyle looks over at him. It wasn't the light in the garage; Kyle's eyes are very much fever-inducing. That's stupid, though, because they never have been before.

"I don't know," Kyle shrugs again. "We haven't talked in a while. I would've told you, but you were MIA every time I called you. It's not even a big deal, dude. Just a dick."

"I know," Stan shifts. "Just, like… you jerked off a guy. What the hell."

"What?" Kyle asks.

"You like women," Stan points out very frankly.

"So does Kenny," Kyle offers.

"Kenny's a fucking heathen," Stan shoots back, only half kidding. "Slap a thong on an orangutan and he'd get a hard-on."

"It's just a dick, Stan," Kyle reiterates, more loudly this time. Like that'll solve anything. "I was drunk, I was curious, give me a fucking break."

There's a moment during which they're both silent before,

"So…" Stan begins.

"So what?" Kyle shoots back, eyebrows high on his forehead, like he just fucking knew Stan wouldn't be able to keep his curiosity in check. The tricky bastard.

"How was it?" Stan prods.

"What?" Kyle asks, innocently.

"Don't fuck with me, you know what," Stan scowls. "You tell me you gave a guy a handy and you're not even gonna tell me how it was? Way to be a fucking friend, pal."

"Fuck, dude," Kyle laughs and runs his fingers through his frizzy hair. "You've never asked Kenny what it's like to jerk a guy off?"

"No, but I've been forcibly told countless times about the joys of sucking dick," Stan mutters and Kyle laughs. "You're a sane person; I'd like your opinion."

"Aw, come on," Kyle gives him a mockingly serious admonishment. "Kenny's got some perfectly good insights."

"Come on, dude," Stan shoves him on the shoulder. "I told you everything about my first times with Wendy. And you didn't hold out on me like this with you and Rebecca."

"Dude, change your fucking tampon," Kyle rolls his eyes, shifting so that he's facing Stan as best he can. "What do you know?

"Was it weird?" Stan finds himself asking, even if what he really wants to ask is more along the lines of 'did you like it'. Kyle or Kenny would ask something like that; Stan's never been that frank. Kyle looks like he has to think about it, pursing his lips and looking up at the ceiling before he finds a decent reply.

"You know the first time you saw a girl's vag and you were like 'okay, this is fucking weird, but I can dig it'?"

Stan nods.

"It was kind of like that," Kyle offers, "except I was, like, intensely aware of the fact that I was holding another guy's dick. Like 'oh god, dick', but… not in a bad way. I don't know. Only did it once."

"You'd do it again?" Stan asks, knowing full-well how surprised he looks. Kyle shrugs, picking at his fingernails again.

"Well, you can't expect to establish law without running a few experiments," he offers, resigned, and Stan knows he's being serious. He doesn't like it.

"Yeah, well," Stan begins, "I've never put Pine-Sol in my coffee but I don't have to do it to know I wouldn't like it."

Kyle snorts, but says nothing. Stan can't tell if he's struck a nerve or if Kyle's waiting for Stan to say something more. Either way, Stan's not going to break the silence. It's a battle Stan knows he's going to lose; Kyle's stubborn enough to never speak again, if that's what it would take.

"Just," Stan finally gives in, "it seems like it'd be fucking weird."

"It was," Kyle laughs. "Nothing I couldn't handle again under certain circumstances."

"Oh, really?" Stan gives a facetious whistle. "What circumstances? You need dinner and a movie now?"

"An artistic film and a dinner at an _at least_ four-star restaurant," Kyle agrees. "If I'm gonna handle some guy's cock, I demand proper compensation."

"Taco Bell's a no-go then?" Stan asks.

"You'd at least have to spring for Del Taco, I'm afraid," Kyle tuts. He and Stan look at each other at the exact same moment and Stan can't help but return Kyle's smile. Fuck, Stan has missed this. Kyle is easy; being with him is familiar and good and it makes him feel that happiness deep in his chest that he hasn't felt for so long. He loves Kenny and Butters, but… fuck, they're not Kyle. No one is.

They arrive at the Broflovski house a few moments later. Stan pulls into the driveway, like he always used to, and looks over at Kyle again.

"Wanna hang out tomorrow?" he asks, hoping and praying to God that he's not overstepping or something. Kyle purses his lips as he unbuckles his seatbelt and looks at Stan again.

"I'm taking my mom to the doctor tomorrow morning," he says. "I'll text you when I'm done?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Stan nods, way more relieved than he should be about Kyle wanting to spend time with him. Kyle gets out of the car and leans in through the rolled down window.

"Grab some lunch?" he asks, and Stan nods again. Kyle grins and gives him a look. "And remember—if you suggest Del Taco, I'll know what you're playing at."

Stan barks out a laugh and flips him off, which only makes Kyle's grin get bigger before he pats the sill of the window and starts off back into his house.

"Later, dude," he calls and Stan gives him a little wave before he backs out and takes off down the street. He doesn't think, or tries not to—he feels too good to muddle this moment with thinking—he just drives to his mom's house. He'll take his key and shit to his landlord tomorrow. Right now he just wants to curl up on his mom's couch and watch Netflix with her.

He parks next to her car and decides he'll unload his shit tomorrow morning. Somehow he feels like unpacking will also destroy this mood and make him want to drink all of his mom's cooking sherry. He walks into the house to see his mom sitting on the couch, phone sandwiched between her shoulder and ear as she works on her crossword puzzle. She notices him and gives him a silent 'hello'. He smiles and goes over to kiss her on the cheek.

"Hold on, Shelly," she says and holds the receiver to her chest. "Honey, I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow morning."

"Couldn't wait," Stan shrugs and sits beside her, leaning his head on her shoulder as she puts the phone back to her ear.

"Sorry, honey, your brother just got here," she says. "No, of course you guys can come over for dinner tomorrow night. I'll make pork roast—all right, sweetie, I love you—okay, bye."

His mom hangs up the phone with a sigh and gives Stan a warm smile. She pulls him into a hug then and gives him a kiss on the top of his head.

"How're you feeling today, sweetheart?" she asks, scratching at the back of his neck. Stan hates that question, but he answers with a 'fine' nonetheless, because he _is_ feeling kind of fine in spite of himself, and whines when his mom stands to go to the kitchen.

"Well, I wasn't expecting you 'til tomorrow, but," she begins, "if you don't mind eating pasta, I'll make some for you."

Stan mutters something about not minding at all and moves to turn on the TV. His mom's got it tuned to CNN, and he supposes she's actually turning into one of those old spinsters who watches the news and does crossword puzzles at home, alone, with no intention of doing anything else. He finds himself wondering if his mom is happy, or if she's like him and she's just too fucked over to want anything else. He thinks that getting divorced probably does something like that to you, but he doesn't presume to actually know.

"What did Shelly want?" he asks, flipping through the channels at a snail's pace.

"Oh, she's coming over for dinner tomorrow night," his mom calls from back in the kitchen. "Her and Eric."

Stan groans and buries his face in the couch cushions. Cartman started dating Shelly a little after he'd turned eighteen; Cartman had turned into a brusque football player type, still the kind of guy who tormented the weak and picked on those less fortunate than himself. Stan didn't know why his infatuation with Shelly had come as a surprise. They were both fucking awful people with fucking awful intentions who said and did fucking awful things to people. Stan wasn't sure why anyone had condoned the two of them actually joining forces, but being that he's been a little too lazy to actually sabotage anything he supposes he can't complain. He just adds it to an ever-growing list of shit that's his fault.

"What do they want?" Stan asks.

"I don't know, Stanley," his mom sighs and comes to sit back next to him. "Maybe they're just trying to be kindhearted and come for dinner."

"You don't know them very well," Stan snorts when his mom hits him on the leg.

"Don't go making assumptions about people, young man," she admonishes, even though he can tell she's smiling.

"They want your fortune," Stan grins to himself. "Your riches. They've come to plunder you for all you're worth."

"Ha-ha," his mom replies just as Stan's struck by a terrible thought.

"God, mom, what if she's pregnant?" he groans and looks back. His mom returns the groan and runs her hands over her face.

"Honey, don't even go there," she says. "You know I'm happy for her, and that I love her, but when I said I wanted grandchildren I didn't quite plan on them being from that union."

"Well," Stan says and sits up, putting an arm around her shoulder and resting their heads together. "If that's the case—and I'm only saying this because I love you—but I'll find a guy who'll kick her in the stomach for us."

"Stanley!" she snaps and smacks him on the arm, and he laughs because she's doing that thing where she's only pretending to be horrified. She chastises him for being a horrible human being just before she makes a mention of accidentally loosening one of the floorboards at the top of the stairs. Stan laughs harder, because now his mom is convinced that they're both awful people who are going to hell, even though he can see a little glint of amusement behind her own self-loathing.

They eat pasta on the couch and watch a lineup of shitty sitcoms, and, for once, Stan's happy to be home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kyle wakes with an uneasy feeling in his gut, which is generally an indication that he's not going to have a good day. When he'd been in school, it generally meant a pop quiz for which he'd neglected to prepare, and at work it usually meant that a server had been shot to hell and he'd have to drive all the way down to Providence to get a firm's system up and running again.

He's taking his mom to the doctor today. His dad would tell him that he's just being negative, and urge him to stop expecting the worst and just be happy to be alive, or some shit like that. Kyle isn't exactly a fan of having high expectations as far as optimism goes, since he can't be as disappointed if his expectations aren't high, but he resolves that his dad is probably worried out of his mind and he's just trying to be positive because that's just how he deals with things.

Kyle deals with things by jogging exhaustively and trying not to think about his mom being sick.

He runs up every staircase he can find, his sneakers pounding against the pavement in time with the angry music on his iPod, trying to forget about how weak his mom's been, how sickly she looks, and how much pain she's been in. He tries to forget how fucking useless he is to help her, and vaguely thinks that he should've become a doctor like she always wanted so he could at least do something to _help_. He's not good at doing the things she needs him to do, like cook dinner or do laundry—not because he's a guy or anything, but because he's just seriously fucking inept at that kind of shit. Plus, all he can do is worry about his mom right now. Nag that she is, Kyle _does_ love her.

He gets back to the house before the sun even rises. His parents are both awake, but only his dad is downstairs. He's making his mom some fruit and yogurt, and Kyle knows she's just going to throw it up in a while if she even eats it at all. He knows this feeling in his gut isn't from pushing himself too hard with his workout, and he knows it's not irrational worry—it's fucked. This whole thing is fucked.

Kyle doesn't bother asking how she's doing today. He knows. He knows she's not doing any better and asking isn't going to help anything. He just sets his iPod down on the counter and goes to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge.

"What time's her appointment?" he asks. He knows that too—of course he fucking knows—but it's too tense in the room and Kyle needs to diffuse. Normally that's Ike's job, but he's still at school and, in all honesty, Kyle thinks he's afraid to come home. Kyle doesn't necessarily blame him, but that doesn't mean it's fucking okay that Kyle's the only one with the decency to drop everything and come help out.

"Eight-thirty," his dad replies, pulling Kyle back into reality. He can tell by the tone of his voice that his dad is upset—fuck it, they're _all _upset, but his dad? His dad's always been solid as a rock… probably because he knows his kids are (or, in Ike's case, can be) total fucking nutjobs like their mother. This, though, Kyle supposes, is too much for even the calmest of people. He's not sure what's worse—your mother having cancer or your wife having cancer—and he sort of prays that he never has to find out.

He only feels marginally bad for not telling Stan. Stan can barely handle his own life on his best days; Kyle doesn't need to go bugging him with this. He'll tell him once everything starts sorting out, when it's clear that the treatment is either working and she'll live for another twenty years, or, god forbid, it's clear that she's beyond help and it's only a matter of time.

Kyle fucking hopes it doesn't end up being the latter. He's not really religious anymore, but he prays about it every fucking time it crosses his mind.

"All right," his dad says, taking the bowl toward the stairs with him. "I'm going to take this up to mom and make sure she's ready. You shower and eat. And try to relax."

Kyle's body is humming from his run. His heart is starting to calm itself again, and his stomach is twisting up in knots. Adrenaline is coursing through him right now, endorphins ensuring him in that post-run high that makes his body think everything is okay when it's not. It's just fucking not.

He scrambles some eggs, eats them out of the pan, and then goes upstairs to wash off, thinking all the while about how much he hates Mondays. He stands under the hot spray of the shower, trying not to think anymore. He succeeds, for the most part, until his dad knocks on the door and tells him to get a move on, that he doesn't want to be late, and he's reminded of the whole shitty situation yet again and shuts off the water.

More than anything, he wishes he was back in his apartment in Boston right now, playing Assassin's Creed on his roommate's massive 60-inch TV in his fucking pajamas, like a normal person. That would mean that there was nothing wrong, that his mom didn't have breast cancer and that he could proceed through his life, business as usual.

As it stands, he's stuck taking his mom to radiation, and it fucking sucks dick. His mom is quiet, tired, and not at all like the woman Kyle knows and loves. She's lost so much weight, both from being sick and from worrying, that she looks absolutely unhealthy. She'll never be as thin as Kenny's mom or Mrs. Stotch or anyone, but she's just one of those women who looks scary when she drops below a certain weight.

"Thank you for taking me, bubbeleh," she says. She sounds so fucking strained, like getting the words out is more of an effort than her body is willing to give, and it makes Kyle's chest hurt.

"Of course, ma," he frowns a little. They don't say anything else for the rest of the car ride, and even when they get to Hell's Pass they're still relatively quiet for it being just the two of them. Kyle and his mom are notorious in their family for _discussing_. They discuss everything, because it's fun for them and it's just in their respective natures, and it's killing Kyle that they're not doing it now.

Kyle has to settle for hiding behind an old as dirt copy of Diabetes Health, hoping that no one from town will see him here. He doesn't think he'd be able to answer anyone's questions right now, which is why he'd rather stare at Bret Michaels' face than admit to anyone, including himself, that he's here.

The only thing that makes him crack a smile is a text he gets from Stan—nothing exhaustively special, just a quick and easy _'Del Taco still on haha'_, which makes Kyle feel something other than shitty for a few seconds and texts back _'that's my starting hand job rate. if you want more you have to shell out for red lobster or some shit.'_

Kyle doesn't even have time to shove his phone back in his pocket before it buzzes again, with another text from Stan, reading '_ha. ha. ha. puns are awesome. you fuck.'_

Kyle snorts, sending back '_aren't you at work? texting in class, tut-tut.'_

'_passing period. fuck you. i am an educator.' _

_'you're a piano player, cock face. don't get ahead of yourself.'_

_'… better than being a cock hand.' _

_'ohhhhh snap. o no u di-int' _

_'brought it. '_

Kyle knows he's grinning like a fucking idiot by the time his mom is done, but Stan has that effect on him. Kenny too, sure, but there's something about Stan that makes him feel like an asshole kid again, and he likes feeling like an asshole kid sometimes still. He feels like a little bit of a shit when he sees his mom, just nuked to hell and back, knowing that he's looking all happy and without a care, but… she's smiling at him, so maybe it's okay? Kyle springs up to offer her a hand, but she swats him away and tells him to stop treating her like an invalid.

"For goodness sake, Kyle, I can manage to walk to the car on my own," she rolls her eyes. Kyle throws up his hands in that universal sign of defeat, though follows her closely out of the ward and through the hallways anyway. She gives him a look that very plainly says 'don't follow me' when she walks into the ladies' room. He plops down on an uncomfortable bench nearby and lets out a sigh. He knows he's being ridiculous, but he absolutely cannot help but worry about his mom.

Just when he thinks he can't feel any worse, who should round the corner but Butters Stotch. Kyle isn't even sure it's him at first, because he's a little taller and a little more filled out than he was when he'd left, but who else, upon seeing someone he recognized, would lift his arm in an emphatic wave and grin like he's been stranded alone on an island for twenty years.

"Well, hey there, Kyle!" Butters chirps and comes over to sit on the bench beside him. He's holding a paper bag from the pharmacy and is that—yep. That's an earring. Butters has managed to out-gay himself by putting a silver hoop through his ear.

"Hey, Butters," Kyle says, looking over toward the bathroom and hoping his mom will take a little extra time to fix up her hair or something. He doesn't know why he's so abjectly terrified of someone like _Butters_ knowing what's going on with his mom… probably because he's tight with Stan and he's never seemed like the type who could keep his mouth shut about anything. It was a fucking wonder how it had taken so long for him and Kenny to start fucking.

"I had no idea you were back in South Park," he says, still smiling like a fucking idiot. Kyle refuses to believe he's ever looked that stupid when smiling about something.

"Yeah, just back for a bit," Kyle replies, shifting uncomfortably. "What're you… what're you doing here?"

"Oh," Butters laughs and shakes the bag in his hand. There's the distinct sound of pills rattling around in that bag, and suddenly Kyle can't help but be curious. "Just pickin' up some stuff before I have to get to work."

"Ah," Kyle nods, eyes still on the bag. "You still work at the bakery or whatever?" he asks.

"Sure do!" Butters beams back, like he's happy that Kyle bothered to remember something about him. He starts chattering about something or another and Kyle can't help but reassure himself that he can't be like this all the time. Kenny would shoot himself if he had to listen to this all day long.

"—but anyway," Butters continues, catching himself with a laugh. "I'm talkin' too much. What brings you here?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Kyle shakes his head. "Just… got a little bug."

Butters nods, like he's all ready to believe this, when Kyle's mom emerges from the bathroom. Butters notices before Kyle even does, sensing the movement out of the corner of his eye and turning his head, eyes bugging out the moment he realizes what he's seeing. Kyle can't help but think that he looks a little like an owl.

"H-hi, Mrs. Broflovski," Butters says, quickly masking his surprise and giving her a genial smile. "How're you doin'?"

Kyle refuses—_refuses_—to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, but come on… who the fuck asks that when someone's very obviously not okay? His mom, though, to her credit, replies that she's fine and thanks Butters for asking. She's always liked Butters, probably because he's so sweet and polite and she feels a little bad for him because of his parents and everything.

"I guess we should go—"

"Kyle, don't be ridiculous," his mom rolls her eyes and starts walking toward the exit. "Stay and talk to your friend. I can manage to get to the car by myself."

No sooner has she turned a corner has Butters turned a worried gaze on Kyle. Kyle rolls his eyes, because of course. Butters doesn't know how to keep himself out of peoples' business—why should Kyle expect this to be any different?

"Shit," he hears Butters say. "Shit, Kyle, what the heck's goin' on?"

"Dude, it's none of your fucking business," Kyle gives a tired sigh and stands. Butters follows, but neither of them move apart from that.

"Maybe not," Butters replies, folding his arms. He looks at Kyle for a few seconds as he chews on his lip, before letting out a frustrated sigh and looking up at the ceiling. "Stan know?" he asks.

"No," Kyle snaps, "and you're not gonna fucking tell him."

"Jesus, Kyle," Butters' eyebrows knit up in confusion as he puts his hands up in defeat. "I'm not tellin' anyone jack shit, all right? Doesn't mean you shouldn't. Look, whatever's wrong, you got friends, all right?"

He fishes his phone out of his pocket then and starts looking for something. A piece of paper flies out with Butters' hand and phone, but Kyle doesn't bother to mention it.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asks.

"Givin' you my phone number," Butters says very definitively. "Never got around to givin' you my new one."

Kyle rolls his eyes, but decides to humor Butters anyway. He takes Butters' number, sends him a text, and he seems to be pretty pleased after that. Kyle supposes he can deal with Butters knowing that something's up.

"You just can't tell Stan about this, all right?" Kyle warns. Butters snorts.

"I won't, don't worry," he says.

"Or Kenny," Kyle amends. Butters looks up at that, eyebrows a little high on his forehead, before he tucks his phone back in his pocket and shrugs.

"All right, I'll do my best," he sighs. "But fair warnin', I don't have too much control over what comes outta my mouth when I'm gettin' fucked."

Kyle feels his face scrunch up because that's an image never ever needed to be in his brain ever. Butters seems to know what he's done and gives Kyle an impish little grin. Something tells Kyle that it was a bad idea to let Butters and Kenny start fucking around with each other—the Butters Kyle had left would have colored at the thought of what he'd just said. He wasn't sure that this town was big enough for two perverts of McCormick proportions.

"Anyway," Butters beams. "I s'pose I should get goin'. I'll see you around, Kyle."

Kyle sees him off with a little wave. He waits until Butters is completely out of view until he picks up the paper that dropped out of his pocket. It's an appointment reminder card, to remind Butters that he's meeting with a doctor named Sofie Peterson next week at nine am. Frowning, Kyle pockets the paper and walks out of the hospital, stopping only for a moment at the front to scan over the names on the directory.

Sofie Peterson, M.D. appears to be a psychiatrist on the fourth floor. Kyle can't say he's surprised—Butters has to be pretty fucked up after everything he's been through. In fact, Kyle's surprised he's actually a functioning member of society. He wonders if Kenny is mostly responsible for that before remembering that it's none of his goddamned business and making his way out to the car.

He gets a text from Stan a few minutes after he gets home, something about a kid at his work having a crisis and him needing to stick around and talk him through it. _'…meet at the bar around 4?'_

Kyle purses his lips, not entirely sure he should enable Stan to drink anymore than he probably already does, but figures he can do a little damage control if he needs. He shoots back an '_affirmative, captain'_ before going up to his room to check his email. When it appears that the guys at work are having issues with a server for one of their clients, Kyle decides to call them up, to slip into IT mode for a while.

It's the first time since he's been back in South Park that he's actually felt useful.

**oooooooo**

Stan and Kyle get to the bar at the same time, which Kyle chocks up entirely on their residual "super best friend" ESP. Judging by the smirk on Stan's face, he's thinking the same thing. Kyle doesn't know what it is about Stan's face that he likes so much—he assumes it has something to do with familiarity and being comfortable and feeling like he's home again.

At least, he assumes it's those things because otherwise it's the way Stan's eyes go all squinty when he smiles, or how his jaw is shaped, or the way his lips stretch over his teeth… and it can't be those things he likes about Stan's face. Why would he just be noticing those things now?

"How's your crisis situation?" Kyle asks as he and Stan both get out of their cars and walk toward the bar. Stan just rolls his eyes and snorts.

"You remember your big crisis at age thirteen?" he asks. Kyle's going to assume Stan doesn't mean his own getting put into a psychiatric ward, which was actually a lot harder on Kenny and Kyle (and even Wendy) than Stan could have ever imagined. He thinks of what else possibly could have been bothering him at that point in his life, but he comes up tragically short.

"I don't know," he shrugs as they enter the bar. Kyle can see Kenny behind the actual bar, wiping off glasses and whistling to himself like he's in a fucking Disney movie. That's definitely Butters, Kyle can't help but think. Realizing Stan is still looking for an answer, he supplies a "He keeps getting boners and he doesn't know why?"

"Oh, he knows why," Stan says and slides up onto a stool. "He just doesn't know why his friend Eli is the one making him get them."

"Oh, fucking burn, dude," Kyle laughs.

"Nice to fucking see you too, Kyle," Kenny snarks from a little down the bar. Kyle looks over at him and sees a broad grin across his face, and okay, he'll admit it: he's missed Kenny almost as much as he's missed Stan. Kenny comes out from behind the bar and envelops Kyle in a bone-crushing hug.

"Dude, when the fuck did you get back?" he asks and holds Kyle at arm's length from him. He looks good, a lot more normal looking—not nearly as scrawny as when Kyle last saw him—and Kyle supposes that's what happens when your significant other is in the business of baking for a living.

"Uh, like Saturday afternoon," Kyle replies and sits back on the stool as Kenny moves back behind the bar. He gives each of them a beer and then cracks one for himself.

"So," he says. "What the fuck's you bitches doin' in my bar?"

"Aw, we just wanted to see how our big brave boy was doing out on the job," Kyle leans over the bar and pinches Kenny's cheeks. Kenny attempts to bite him, twisting his head and clicking his jaw shut just short of Kyle's fingers, and Kyle pulls away laughing.

"So smart, so handsome," Stan gives a false, wistful sigh. "He really is all grown up."

"Fuck off, both of you," Kenny snorts and starts cleaning glasses off again. "The happy couple reunited at last… what's the occasion?"

"Gay jokes," Kyle raises his bottle. "That's original."

"You forfeit any and all rights you have to heterosexuality when you start asking me what it's like to handle cock," Kenny tosses him a wink.

"Aw, goddamn it, _you_ knew about that?" Stan groans half a second before Kyle whips around to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Now? Now Kenny's eyebrows are all perked up and he looks excited and _fuck_ what's he supposed to do? He can't just not share something like that with Kenny.

"Kyle, you dirty girl," Kenny grins, like he already knows what Kyle had done, not to mention how fucking much he'd enjoyed it. Kyle runs his fingers through his hair and sighs as Kenny starts in again. "What did you do? Hands? Mouth? Come on, you can tell your ol' pals. We don't judge, right Stan?"

"I'm officially out of this conversation," Stan declares with a tip of his beer. He drains about half of it in one go, and it makes Kyle's stomach get all weird inside.

"It was a fucking hand job and it wasn't that bad," Kyle says, looking pointedly at Stan rather than Kenny.

"How big?" Kenny asks, getting down to brass tacks.

"Kenny, I'm not fucking answering that," Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Fair enough, hard to gauge for an amateur," Kenny concedes. "Cut or uncut?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Kyle practically shrieks. He sounds enough like his mother that Stan starts to laugh. It makes Kyle feel a little better, knowing Stan's at least not so weirded out that he won't laugh about this.

"These are important questions, Kyle," Kenny says very frankly. "I'd be asking you about tits and pussy if you'd been with a girl, would I not, Stan?"

"Kenny, come on," Stan groans, like he doesn't want to get involved in any of this.

"Would I not, Stan?" Kenny repeats, more insistent this time.

"Fine, yes!" Stan exclaims. He's red in the face now, which makes Kyle frown and immediately want to tell Kenny to lay the fuck off if he knows what's good for him. Which is weird, because he's never ever wanted to talk to Kenny that way ever. And he's never that protective of Stan… at least, not anymore. He used to be when they were kids, and he was so far into his depression that he couldn't bother to defend himself.

He seems better now. Then again, Kyle can never tell.

"Did you like it?" Kenny asks, all business again. Kyle rolls his eyes, only because he can feel himself flush the two times he's been asked this question. He's had a guy's dick in his hand. So what? Why is everyone acting like this is the end of the world?

"It was okay," he shrugs and takes a long pull off of his beer. "I mean, I'm not clamoring to do it again or anything, but I wouldn't, like, say 'no' under certain circumstances."

This makes Kenny's gaze snap over to Stan.

"What are you waiting for," he says. "The man's extending an invitation."

Stan, blessedly, rolls his eyes and flips Kenny the bird. Kyle laughs, though it's more to diffuse the tension his body's built up than out of actual amusement.

Because he's not entirely sure he'd deny Stan if he'd asked for something like that, and that kind of freaks him the fuck out.

"You're so fucking repressed," Kenny laughs a little as he shakes his head. "And after everything I've taught you over the course of our friendship?"

"Telling me how good Butters is at sucking your dick doesn't count as 'teaching', assclown," Stan bites back, and Kyle laughs.

"I teach," Kenny begins pointedly, and Stan is already rolling his eyes and kicking at Kyle under the bar, "I teach sex positivity. As a fellow educator—"

"You're actually insane, you know that?" Stan interjects, but in the grand tradition of Kenny McCormick, he's not listening.

"As a fellow educator," Kenny continues, like he hasn't been interrupted, "I would've thought you'd be able to not only accept differences, but _embrace_ them."

"Dude, did you get high before you came to work?" Kyle asks. Stan laughs while Kenny stares at Kyle and mutters something along the lines of 'oh god, it's back' before he goes to tend to a few older patrons who've just sat down at the bar. Stan and Kyle sit for a second, both relatively silent as they let the smiles die off on their faces. Kyle notices that the bottle in Stan's hand is empty, so he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck.

"So…" he says uncertainly. "You come here often?"

"Fuck off," Stan laughs and shoves lightly at his shoulder. Kyle laughs a little back before he blows across the top of his bottle, putting off asking the question he kind of doesn't want to ask. He settles on something silly, something stupid… something he actually knows the answer to, that he can handle.

"It doesn't actually bother you, does it?" he asks, and makes a crude hand gesture when Stan give him a confused look. Stan laughs.

"That you jerked a guy off?" he asks. "No, dude, look at who the fuck I've been stuck with for the last like five years. I swear, the second the Wonder Twins started fucking, I threw in the towel on being weirded out by anything."

He's lying, but only a little.

"So, then," Kyle begins. "What are you doing tonight? Wanna go see _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_? I hear it's pretty good."

"Shit, dude," Stan sighs and starts rubbing at the spot between his eyebrows. "That sounds awesome, but fucking Shelly is coming over for dinner tonight."

"Oh, fucking weak, dude," Kyle frowns. He's not sure why he has a little worm of rejection wriggling inside him, but he does what he does best and tries to repress it.

"Hey," Stan says, like he's getting an idea and they're about to scheme. Kyle kind of misses scheming. "Hey, if you're not busy… you wanna come over? I mean, I know it's not ideal, but my mom's making pork roast and I know that's your favorite way to rebel against your heritage."

"Mm," Kyle attempts to say, mid sip, and gestures to Stan with his bottle, "I've actually recently discovered the magic that is putting bacon in waffles, but your mom's pork roast is a close second."

"There is a catch," Stan points out quickly, "and that's that Cartman's probably going to be with her."

"Ugh," Kyle reacts before he can stop himself. "They're still going out?"

"I've thrown my hat into the _'we're expecting'_ ring," Stan answers sardonically.

"Expecting what," Kyle asks, "the fucking anti-Christ?"

"Knowing them, that's the best case scenario," Stan groans and rubs at his temples. Kyle finds himself feeling bad—rightfully so, he feels—because absolutely nothing gets to Stan quite like being around his family. Add Cartman into the mix (along with the fact that he's been fucking his sister for however long) and a dash of eviction (just to spice things up), and it's actually a wonder that Stan hasn't downed an entire forty by himself yet.

"Dude, I'll come over," Kyle finds himself saying. At least if he's there, he'll be able to keep tabs on Stan's alcohol intake. He knows it's none of his business how much people drink, and Kenny would've told him if it was getting bad again, yeah, but Kyle still likes to make sure just because that's what he does.

"Oh, I was just suggesting," Stan shakes his head. "Don't feel like it's an obligation or—"

"Shut the fuck up," Kyle rolls his eyes. "You're not holding a fucking gun to my head or anything. I'm going because I want to go with you. Get over it."

He looks over and sees Stan smiling at him, so he smiles back and claps him on the shoulder. As fucking awful as this is going to be, he doesn't want Stan to go through it alone. He loves him way too much for that. They sit with each other as Kyle finishes his beer. He nurses it, letting Stan's beer settle (in spite of the fact that the one beer probably hasn't done jack shit to even take the edge off for him), so he can get them back to his house safely.

When he's done, Kyle throws some cash down on the bar and gives Kenny a little salute.

"Bar keep," he says, and Stan salutes from beside him too. Kenny gives them a little wave, reminding them to tape anything of a sexual nature if it does indeed come to that. Kyle and Stan both flip him off at the same time and stuff their hands in their pockets, walking out of the bar at all too reasonable a distance from each other. Alcohol makes Kyle cuddly and handsy (hence, the desire to know just how it felt to give someone a hand job), and just one beer is usually enough to make him want to throw his arms around the nearest person. Or, in Stan's case, hop up onto his back and ride him out of the bar like a horse.

It's the one beer that makes him _want_ to do that—it'll be another three or four before he actually gets to the point where the actual execution of this desire is a threat.

He doesn't drink that much anymore, though. It fucks with his blood sugar hardcore and he can't afford another scare like the one he had when he first got to college.

They drive back to Sharon's house in relative silence, one of Stan's mix CDs playing some innocuous eighties song that Kyle's mocked him for before, he's pretty sure. Stan really likes eighties pop, and Kyle will actually never understand why. When they pull into the drive, Cartman's ridiculous brand new black Escalade is already parked out front, effectively taking up half of the street. Stan sees this and sighs, and Kyle buys himself some time by scoffing so he can think of something stupid to say to cheer him up.

"What a cock," is the most clever thing he can come up with, but Stan laughs anyway so Kyle counts it as a success.

"Fuckin' dickhole," Stan agrees, and they both get out of the car. Kyle waits until they're walking up to the door to drape his arm around Stan's shoulder.

"If she's pregnant," Kyle says. "I'll kick her in the stomach, okay?"

"You're the best," Stan snorts and leans his head against Kyle's for a second.

"And if she's not, I'll help you sterilize her," Kyle adds, just before Stan pulls away to open the door. "And Cartman. Both of them."

Stan shushes him through a laugh as they walk through the door. Shelly and Cartman are on the couch already, Cartman's arm draped around her on the back of the couch, while Sharon is looking rather uncomfortable in a nearby armchair. She looks more than relieved to see Stan and Kyle walk through the door.

"Kyle!" she greets him brightly. "I had no idea you were back in town!"

No one did. That was the point. He knew he couldn't hide forever, but this was why he hated coming home. He hated getting this kind of attention. He loved Sharon and everything, but if he had to listen to one more person say that they didn't know he was here, he was going to kill something.

"Hey, Shel," Stan nods, "Hey Cartman."

Shelly stands to give him a hug. She turned out to be a lot prettier than Kyle would have thought, even though all he can ever see when he looks at her is greasy hair, pink corduroy pants, and headgear. She's tall and curvy, and has definitely inherited her mom's fantastic rack. Kyle can't say he blames Cartman—if Shelly were a halfway decent human being, Kyle would've gone after her himself.

Okay, probably not, because Stan's his best friend and dating your best friend's sister just strikes him as a little strange.

"All right, now that everyone's here," Sharon claps her hands, "let's have a little wine."

Sharon's obviously heard whatever Shelly has to say. Kyle's only ever seen her drink heavily on a few occasions, and it's always on the tail end of bad news. The moment she disappears into the kitchen, Kyle sees Shelly roll her eyes and look back at Cartman.

"Eric, don't be rude," she snaps. Kyle and Stan give each other a look when they see Cartman mobilize almost immediately. For a second Kyle wonders if Shelly Marsh has done the unthinkable and managed to tame the untamable Eric Cartman. Except then Cartman rolls his eyes and tells her to stop being such a miserable bitch and Kyle snorts into his hand.

"'The fuck you laughing at, Kahl?" Cartman snaps. Kyle shakes his head, but knocks one of his sneakers up against Stan's boots. Stan kicks him back and gives him a little shove with his shoulder, because Shelly has managed to get Cartman into a nice sweater and khakis and he's combed his hair and he looks _nice_ and it makes Kyle want to piss himself with laughter because he just looks lik_e such. a fucking. tool._

"No-nothing," Kyle stammers, trying to keep his laughter at bay. They look like your typical preppy couple, the kind Kyle sees littering the east coast in the summer time, and Kyle will bet anything that they'll belong to a country club and do things like play doubles tennis on Saturdays within the next five years. And the only reason it's so fucking funny is because they're actually terrible fucking people.

"You guys are such assholes," Shelly rolls her eyes and goes to loop her arm through Cartman's, resting her hand on his huge, meaty bicep. Then Kyle sees it—the biggest fucking rock he's ever seen glittering on her left ring finger.

"Holy shit!" he exclaims half a second before he can think to stop himself. Stan gives him a look, following his line of sight and immediately letting out his own "Holy shit!" before he flies forward and pulls Shelly's hand to his face. Kyle moves next to him, wondering just how fucking much they're paying Cartman at his fucking cushy office job.

"What the fuck is this?" Stan yelps.

"It's a ring, genius," Shelly snatches her hand back. "Eric and I are getting married."

"Fuck off," Stan laughs, looking up at both of them. They're not laughing. Kyle brings his hand up to Stan's shoulder and squeezes, digging his nails into warning him to keep his mouth shut because the last thing he needs is to be offensive.

"Ah," Sharon returns, open wine bottle and a few empty glasses hanging from her fingers. "You've heard."

"Eric and I are in love," Shelly says, resting her head on Cartman's shoulder. "He finally popped the question on our anniversary last week, and we wanted to come tell you guys in person."

Kyle knows he's staring, just like Stan and Sharon are, except they're both staring at Shelly and Kyle can't take his eyes off of Cartman. He's fucking tall, like, monstrously so, and even though he's still fat under every definition of the word, he's thick and meaty and looks all around like the type of guy you wouldn't want to fuck with. Kyle doesn't particularly like it, mostly because he knows that under all that bulk and fat, there actually is a homicidal fuck lurking, waiting to come out.

Maybe he channels all of his rage into business.

Kyle doesn't know.

He just accepts a glass of wine from Sharon and downs about half of it in one gulp, because he'd rather be up in Stan's room playing Gamesphere or X-Box or something, eating out of the same bag of Cheesy Poofs and getting orange dust all over Stan's controllers. Instead he's here, being an adult.

Being an adult fucking sucks.

They sit down to dinner after a long stretch of awkward conversation. Kyle's on his second glass of wine, Stan's on his third; Sharon is opening another bottle, getting ready for her fourth. She's never liked Cartman, none of the mothers have, and every single parent in town prayed that he wouldn't date their daughter. Poor Sharon probably thought she was safe.

"So, Eric," Sharon says, obviously a little more inebriated than she needs be as she carves up the roast, waving the knife around in a way that makes Kyle laugh more than it should. "How is work going?"

"It's great, Sharon," Cartman replies, grasping the glass of wine like a goblet in his meaty fist. "We're up three percent since last quarter—"

He descends into a bunch of lingo that Kyle doesn't understand, and in fact Kyle believes Cartman is mostly making up as he goes. Kyle busies himself with cutting his meat, looking down at his plate at kicking Stan's foot again. He looks out of the corner of his eye and sees Stan smiling before he kicks back. Kyle has a more difficult time keeping his snickering to himself after this much wine, and so gets the attention of everyone at the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry Kahl," Cartman frowns, pretending to look genuinely concerned. "I didn't mean to bore you. You do what, work with computers? How does it feel knowing you're going to be obsolete in the workforce in ten years?"

"People are always going to use computers, fuckface," Kyle rolls his eyes and Stan elbows him in the ribs.

"Don't talk to my fiancé like that, asshole," Shelly spits. Stan's hand is on Kyle's knee, gripping him hard in his attempts not to laugh. Kyle ignores how hot the hand feels, radiating warmth through the thick denim of his jeans, and mumbles out a half-hearted apology. They continue with the meal, knives and forks awkwardly clanking against plates, Stan and Kyle looking at each other and snorting into their wine every so often, but mostly going through it without consequence.

"Have you told your father?" Sharon asks. Kyle can hear the laziness of her tongue slurring around the words, and realizes he's never seen her like this before. Sharon's always the calm one, the cool one, the one who was always the sober presence in a houseful of chaos.

"I was going to call dad after we came to talk to you," Shelly shrugs and sips at her wine. Cartman looks like he's about to say something, but his phone rings and he _insists_ that he take it. Shelly watches him walk all the way out of the house and into the front yard before she turns back to her mom and gives her an excited look.

"Okay," she begins, "I wanted to wait until we were alone to talk to you about this."

"Fantastic," Kyle gives a little toast with his glass, but Stan grabs the tail of his flannel shirt and drags him back down into his seat.

"Shut up, Kyle," Shelly glares and turns back to Sharon. "Mom, I was thinking. We're planning on having the wedding in June, but I sort of don't think it's appropriate for us to be living together until then—"

"Have a heart," Kyle rolls his eyes. "You already gave him the milk for free, he's doing you a fucking favor buying the goddamned cow."

Stan full on barks out a laugh; Sharon starts choking on her wine. Shelly looks like she's about to issue a beat down, so Kyle tosses out another apology through his own laugh and puts his head down on the table, hoping the conversation will continue and everyone will forgive him for being belligerent.

"As I was saying," Shelly continues. "I was wondering if you'd let me move back in before the wedding."

"Oh, honey," Kyle hears Sharon say. He doesn't want to look up because he knows he'll say something rude, but Stan's gripping his leg again and his hand's getting higher up and with this amount of alcohol in his system Kyle may not be able to keep his dick disinterested. "Shelly, that's a lot of people back in the house."

"Mom, I can't live with him before we get married," Shelly says. "I have to revirginize."

Kyle can't take it anymore. He busts up laughing as he hears Stan's fork clatter to his plate and Sharon mutter 'oh, for the love of God' like this is the last straw and she just can't fucking take it anymore. Personally, Kyle's feeling a little loopy from the alcohol and lightheaded from the lack of oxygen to his brain, so he resolves not to drink anything else for the rest of the night.

Only he can't stop laughing, and when Cartman comes back into the dining room Kyle _actually_ falls off his chair like a bimbo at a frat party. The commotion sets Stan's dogs barking from somewhere inside the house and before he knows it Kyle's being hauled to his feet by Stan and escorted upstairs. Kyle can't stop laughing, because that the _fuck_ does a bullshit term like 'revirginize' mean? They go into Stan's room and are immediately accosted by Trapper and Hawkeye. Kyle's met Trapper before, back when he was a puppy the last time he was here, and either he remembers Kyle or he's the friendliest dog on the planet.

"Hey, Trapper, get down," Stan snaps, grabbing him by the collar and tossing him off to the side. Trapper gives a playful bark, obviously thinking this is a game, and attempts to jump up again. Stan shoves him away again, laughing, and sits Kyle down beside Hawkeye, who appears to be hanging back on the bed and not getting too excited.

"You," Kyle says and runs a hand over Hawkeye's sleek black fur. "I like you. You're quiet."

"Dude," Stan laughs and sits on the bed beside Kyle. "What in the _fuck_ just happened?"

"I don't know," Kyle says and scratches Hawkeye behind the ears. "Your sister apparently feels that it's possible to regrow a hymen."

"Aw come on," Stan groans. "Don't talk about my sister's hymen."

"I can't," Kyle shrugs. "I can't talk about something that doesn't exist."

Stan shoves him, and Kyle shoves him back, and they're both laughing and Kyle feels like he's a fucking kid again. He could never forget how much he loves Stan, but sometimes that swell of happiness in his chest is a lot more prominent than other times.

"You're a fucking lightweight," Stan laughs as Kyle kicks off his shoes and stretches out on Stan's bed.

"Bullshit!" Kyle exclaims, feeling altogether too queasy to do anything. The amount of food in his stomach is settling in, and it doesn't quite feel like the alcohol is doing him much good either. He buries his face in Stan's pillow, which smells like dog and Stan's shampoo and Stan, and vaguely registers Stan saying he'll be back up in a little while. Kyle nods and tries not to vomit when Trapper hops up onto the bed and settles in right up against his stomach. He fades in and out of consciousness, drunk and full and too happy for words, until he's pretty sure Stan's going to be gone for a while.

He only realizes he's drifted off to sleep when Stan comes back into the room and wakes him by flopping down onto the bed. Trapper and Hawkeye hop off the bed when Stan gives them a push to the side and Kyle finds himself missing the warm bodies against him. But then Stan inches up beside him, still a reasonable distance, mind, but close enough for Kyle to feel his body heat radiating off of him.

"How're you doin', big guy?" Stan asks through a laugh.

"I'm fucking fantastic," Kyle replies, eyes slipping shut.

"We've gotta build up your tolerance," Stan snorts. The bed shakes and Kyle feels a socked foot kicking at his shin.

"Shh, stop," Kyle kicks at him and opens his eyes. His contacts have shifted out of focus, so he has to do that rapid blink thing that makes him wonder why in the fuck he doesn't just switch back to his glasses and be done with it.

"Hey," Stan says, frowning. "I never asked how your mom's appointment went."

"No, you didn't," Kyle shakes his head. "You dickhead."

"Shut up," Stan laughs. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, probably," Kyle shrugs and inches closer to Stan. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he shouldn't, but he's not sure _why_ he shouldn't, so he goes ahead and rests his forehead against Stan's. "Know who I saw on our way out, though?" he asks, already starting to feel sleepy again with Stan, who's like a fucking furnace, this close to him.

"Who?" Stan yawns.

"Butters," Kyle yawns back, eyes shutting again. "I think he's seeing a shrink."

Stan's silent for a moment before letting go of a soft, simple, "huh."

Kyle wants to talk about it more, to speculate, but Stan's breath is puffing out of his nose in a steady rhythm and lulling Kyle back into a state of sleep. He opens his eyes one more time to see Stan, mouth slightly open and eyes flitting behind his eyelids. Kyle yawns again and decides it's the best course of action to roll over and falls asleep without another thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks everyone for reading! I hope you're all enjoying this as much as I am. :)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It's not a week before Shelly moves back into their mom's house and, honestly? Stan can't be bothered by it right now.

That's not to say he's _not _bothered (because he is), but rather that there's so much going on in his life right now that he simply _can't_ be bothered. It's the Thursday before winter break at school, which means that it's the night of Park County Middle School's choir's winter festivities show and Stan is stuck at work until all hours of the night.

Okay, he's not _stuck_ there… but he has to be back by, like, five and it's already three-thirty and it's just one of those days when he hadn't wanted to get out of bed anyway and now he's _here_ and he's _doing things_ and it's just a fucking shitty day, okay?

And on top of everything, last night marks the third night in a row that Stan's dreamt about Kyle jerking him off, and every time he comes close to spunking in his bed, he wakes up painfully hard and feeling a little nauseated. He doesn't sleep after he wakes up from those dreams, even though he's not above knocking back a shot of whiskey in an attempt to lull himself, just tosses and turns until his alarm goes off and he has to get ready for work.

He wouldn't care about it, except the kids have started to notice that he's looking a little haggard and that's not good. Show one hint of weakness and suddenly you're a fucking doormat.

He needs advice.

Moreover, he needs advice from the only person he knows who's ever slept with Kyle.

He needs to talk to Rebecca.

He passes through the back part of campus, practically bowling down a few students who are unaware and standing in his way, and makes his way into the library. Apart from being Kyle's ex-girlfriend, Rebecca is also the youngest employee on campus and was instrumental in getting Stan this job. She was always nice to him, even after she and Kyle split (amiably, of course). She's the only person on staff who bothers hanging around him, mostly because she's always so lost in her books and doesn't really bother herself with Stan's moods or take them personally.

Stan doesn't think you can take anything too personally if you're going to date Kyle Broflovski.

As expected, she's sitting behind the front desk of the library when Stan gets in there, nose buried in a book in spite of the rowdy afterschool crowd. Stan tells a few of the louder kids to pipe down before turning to Rebecca and knocking on the desk in front of her. She jolts out of her own little world and looks up, giving Stan a smile once she realizes that it's him.

"Hello there, Stan," she beams. Her frizzy hair is pulled back tight into a stereotypical librarian's bun, and she's got the outfit to match. In fact, if Kyle hadn't divulged to Stan the dirtier details of their sex life, Stan would've sworn that she was just as mousey all the way down to the core.

As it stands, Stan has been hyperaware for the last seven years that Rebecca Cotswolds is the type of girl who has screaming orgasms and leaves fingernail marks on her boyfriend's back.

"Hey, Rebecca," he greets and moves behind the counter to sit with her.

"Big night tonight," she says, setting the book gingerly off to the side. "Excited?"

"Yeah, it'll be okay," Stan shrugs, not really wanting to fuck around with niceties at the moment. "I actually wanted to talk to you about something."

"Oh," she furrows her brow. Stan never goes to her for advice or to talk or anything like that, just usually to stop by and say 'hi' and occasionally offer to grab her a cup of coffee on those more difficult days. "Well, I guess that's all right. Shoot."

"You can't," he begins, feeling nauseous again and suddenly wondering if this is in fact a 'good idea'. He looks at her, sees her big brown eyes blink in earnest a few times before he decides to swallow his pride and come out with it. "You can't laugh."

"Of course," Rebecca nods. She's still got that homeschooled girl mentality about her—it's bitterly obvious that she just wants to be liked.

"So, Kyle's back in town," he says. "And like… I've been having dreams about him?"

Rebecca nods, looking off to the side like she's waiting for him to continue, and when she realizes he's not going to she bites her lip and looks back at him.

"What kind of dreams?" she asks. Fuck. Stan had been afraid she'd ask that.

"Like…" Stan brings his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. His face is red, he knows it is. "Like, sex dreams?" he drops his voice to a whisper.

Rebecca looks at him for a second before her eyebrows fly up into her hairline and her eyes going wide as she looks at him like he's a fucking phantom.

"Oh," she covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh, okay. Um… You're sure… you're sure it's him and you?"

"It's him, it's me, we've both got dicks," Stan whispers. He can hear his voice waiver… fuck, why is he so freaked out about this? They're just dreams.

"Okay, okay," she holds her hands out in a placating gesture. "Sheesh, we're around kids."

"Sorry," Stan sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "It's just been bugging the sh—the crap out of me."

"Well," Rebecca purses her lips and crosses her legs, leaning on the counter in a very clinical way. "Is it bugging you because you're dreaming about another man or because you're dreaming about Kyle?"

Stan wants to respond, he does, only he can't because he… fuck, he doesn't know. He feels like if he answers with the former that it's some sort of homophobia, while at the same time answering with the latter doesn't seem quite right either. He loves Kyle. It shouldn't freak him out that some part of his subconscious mind wants to sleep with him.

But he's a guy.

With a dick.

Stan's not entirely sure that he can handle dick.

"Let me tell you something," Rebecca says, all business now. "I don't know if anyone's ever told you, but 'sexuality', in quotations, is a social construct, okay? Sex is a basic human need and we're taught that we can only have it in certain ways with certain people, when that's just not how desire and passion works. You're probably dreaming about doing these kinds of things with Kyle because he's safe to you. You trust him explicitly and you know he'd take care of you if ever you two found yourselves in that kind of situation. Right?"

God fucking damn it, Rebecca is a fucking genius sometimes. Stan wouldn't expect anything less of a girl Kyle dated.

"Yeah," he says, feeling a little better. Only, there's still the ever-present thought of dick just in his brain, all flaccid and just _sitting_ there like it's got nothing better to do.

As dicks are wont to do, he supposes.

"Have you ever slept with another girl?" Stan blurts out before he can stop himself. Rebecca, to her credit, doesn't seem to take offense, or even be embarrassed for that matter. She just smiles a little smile and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

That's an answer, Stan supposes.

"At the end of the day," she says. "The only thing that matters is what you want, all right? That's the only thing that ever really should matter… unless you think you're about to kill someone or something. Then maybe you should reexamine your life choices."

Stan snorts and gives her a quick 'thanks' before hopping over the desk (which doesn't amuse Rebecca _at all_) and dashing out of the library altogether. He walks briskly to the staff parking lot, pulling out his phone to shoot Kyle a text only to find that he has one new message.

It's not from Kyle, but from Kenny, a simple _'TF wen did fatass get here?'_

Stan snorts and texts back, _'He must be helping Shelly move. Be thankful he's not in your house. He probably rubbed his balls all over my pillow or something.'_

Stan gets in his car and drives to a nearby Subway, halfway through ordering a foot-long, meat-filled sandwich he intends on devouring entirely on his own, when Kenny finally gets around to replying back to him.

_'ur wit is effervescent.' _

_'Oh snap—I reckon that there's one of them fancy four-dollar-words.'_

Stan pays the cashier and sits down at the table just in time for Kenny's response.

_'suck dicks. all of them.' _

Stan just snorts and tucks his phone back in his pocket.

His feeding passes without consequence, as does the drive back to the school and the time he spends messing around in the library with Rebecca before his 'call time'. When he gets to the band room, he ropes the choir kids into warm-ups and tries to ignore the dreamy stares he always gets from a trio of identical-looking blonde girls.

He wants to tell them to fuck off, that he's ten years older than them and that it's gross for them to think of him in that way, but mostly he just tries to silently wish them away through sheer force of will.

When the kids walk over to the auditorium to set up, Stan changes into his concert clothes: a crisp white shirt and black slacks that make him look like Gary did before he'd left on his mission a few years ago.

When he gets to the auditorium, he does another run through a few of the songs with the choir and tries to keep the kids from noticing that their music teacher, the elderly Mrs. Gable, is asleep in the back of the room where she said she'd be 'listening for volume'. Stan wakes her when it's time to let the audience in and helps her up to the podium. He helps tune the strings one last time before he starts playing some Christmasy piano jazz that he's pretty sure is from A Charlie Brown Christmas while the audience peters in.

It isn't until he's hit in the head by a crumpled piece of paper that he realizes that he hasn't had too many upsetting thoughts since he got back to the school. It figures—things are always better when he doesn't have time to dwell on shitty feelings that crop up in his brain.

He keeps playing as he turns around to tell the kids in the band to stop fucking around, that throwing shit at him isn't okay, only something in the audience catches his eye before he gets to it.

Kyle's sitting a few rows back, smirking and ripping up his program so he can crumple it and toss it at Stan's head again. Remarkably, Stan keeps playing without missing a beat. They'd done this kind of thing in high school, when Stan had to prep for recitals: Stan would play and Kyle would distract him by any means necessary until he could play through just about anything.

And he _can_ play through anything now… Even though Kyle's being a smarmy douchenozzle and grinning at him like he _knows_ just what the fuck he's doing.

"Mr. Marsh, why's that guy throwing stuff at you?"

That's Jack, the kid who can't seem to stop thinking about his friend Eli. He plays timpani in the orchestra, if only because he likes hanging back by the piano with Stan. Stan doesn't mind—he likes Jack, if only because he seems to be one of those kids who, like Stan and Kyle used to, feels out of place amongst his peers.

So, Stan doesn't feel the slightest twinge of regret when he replies with, "He's my Eli."

Jack's eyes just go big and he nods. He's thirteen, but he's smart—smarter than Stan was at that age—and he's a good enough kid not to blow something like this out of proportion.

"Wow," Jack says, nodding in approval. "Nice, Mr. Marsh."

And okay, Stan colors at that because come on. He doesn't need the approval of a thirteen-year-old… mostly because there's nothing there to approve.

The concert starts and Stan lets himself become wrapped up in it. Music does that to him, takes him out of whatever he's feeling and lets him refocus his energy. It's a rare thing that allows him this sort of emotional freedom, and that's actually the only reason anyone ever let him out of the psych ward at Hell's Pass to begin with. His mom had brought him his guitar and he'd played every moment he'd been allowed. His therapist suggested that he learn how to play piano and, sure enough, that (along with a little medication later on) had taken the edge off of his crazy.

He glances over at Kyle every once in a while the kids in choir perform, if only because Kyle smirks at him and shakes his head in that way that's supposed to convey how stupid he obviously thinks this is. Kyle always comes to these kinds of things for him, though. He came to every single piano recital Stan played in, and even once to the senior year production of _Guys and Dolls_ Stan (and Kenny) had been in, despite the fact that he hates musicals.

By the time the concert is over, Stan's ready to crawl in a hole and die. Kyle's there, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that a few of the kids in the choir were too busy dicking around to remember their cues, or that the jagoff oboe player thought it was funny to tune his instrument half a step higher than everyone else (for the sole purpose of nothing, other than the fact that he's thirteen and a little cockface). Mostly, it's just the same as any other winter concert (i.e. the most stressful thing ever, and it makes Stan want to punch children in the face more than usual).

"So, that fucking sucked," Kyle comes up behind Stan as he's exiting the building and tosses an arm around his shoulders.

"Keep your fucking voice down, cockhead," Stan whispers and jabs Kyle in the side, trying to pretend he's not laughing just in case someone tries to get him fired for enjoying a brief moment in his life. "The fuck are you even doing here anyway?"

"Hopefully not getting arrested for pedophilia," Kyle replies and Stan claps a hand over his mouth.

"Dude, shut the fuck up," he warns softly, laughter on the tail end of his voice because Kyle actually blindly hates any human being under the age of twenty with a burning passion. "Parents take this shit seriously."

"Okay, okay," Kyle laughs and fucks out of Stan's grip. He's got that earnest look about him again, just before he continues with "I don't know, dude… I'm here. I just wanted to come and, like, support you… or whatever."

"Dude, it's my work," Stan raises his eyebrows, looking at Kyle with a look he knows conveys how crazy he thinks he's being. "You don't have to be supportive. This isn't Carnegie Hall or some shit."

"I don't know," Kyle shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, following Stan back to the music room to get his bag. "That was a pretty sweet version of Winter Wonderland."

They look at each other for a few seconds before Stan just rolls his eyes and socks Kyle on the shoulder.

After Stan gets his stuff, they drive back to South Park so Kyle can drop off his car and pack a bag for the night over at Stan's. He tells Stan he'll just be a minute and runs in the house before Stan can even think to get out of the car to follow him, so he just hangs out outside, kicking at some snow and chewing at his thumbnail. It's a little weird to Stan that Kyle doesn't want him in the house, but Kyle's still a little weird even after being friends for twenty years, so.

When they get back to Stan's house, his mom's car is gone. And what's worse, Cartman's Escalade is out front and every light in the house is off but Shelly's, which makes Stan queasy more than anything.

"I'm not going in there," he states very definitely, and Kyle just rolls his eyes.

"Oh, come on," he groans. "You're the one who _lives_ here—don't let them fucking chase you away, dude. That means they win."

Stan lets out a rather emasculating little whine as Kyle gets out of the car and walks up to the house. He really, really wishes he could keep his focus on what Shelly and Cartman are most-definitely getting up to up in that room, but…. God damn it, he _cannot_ look away from Kyle's ass. Stan's had to concede before, in public, to actual people, that it's a pretty nice ass, but right now it's making Stan's fingers itch and his heart race and his mind focus entirely on it instead of the issues at hand.

When Kyle turns and beckons him to folow, Stan slides out of the car at a snail's pace, work bag slung over his shoulder as he rummages through its contents for his keys. The moment they're inside, Kyle barely has time to toss his bag onto the couch before he's all but attacked by an overzealous Trapper and a more reticent Hawkeye.

"Hey, boys!" Stan shouts and gives a sharp whistle. They back off immediately, Hawkeye looking a little ashamed of himself while Trapper jumps up and down in one place, whining but at least obeying when Stan tells them to knock it off and leave Kyle alone.

"So," Stan begins, but before he can continue with a thought he hasn't actually yet bothered forming, a commotion comes from upstairs. Kyle and Stan both turn their gazes up to the ceiling and stop.

"'The fuck?" Kyle mutters.

"She's probably moving her stuff in still," Stan explains quickly, even though he fucking well knows that's not what's happening—moving things in didn't tend to be that loud… or that rhythmic. Kyle's still looking at the ceiling, arms folded and actually _laughing._

"No fucking way," he cackles and makes a mad dash for the stairs. Stan moves to follow him, if only to grab his shirt and pull him back down the stairs, but he's too late. They find themselves at the top of the landing, both with their backs pressed into the walls opposite each other as they listen to the ominous bangs, which are now more frequently interspersed with heavy grunts and breathy moans. _Fucking fucking fucking._ They're fucking in Shelly's room and Stan wants to fucking _die_ because he can hear every. Last. Little. Thing.

Kyle, meanwhile, has both hands covering his mouth to keep his laughter from spilling out. He looks down the hall do Shelly's room, then back at Stan. He uncovers his mouth and, with a disgusted smile on his face, mouths 'oh my fucking god'. Stan rolls his eyes, entirely red in the face now, and grabs Kyle's wrist to pull him downstairs.

"Oh my _God,_" Kyle is practically crying as Stan guides them both out to the car. "How—How is he supposed to tell if she's coming or suffocating?"

"Aw, fucking sick, dude!" Stan yelps as Kyle's throes of laughter only worsen. Kyle almost doesn't make it into the car, he's laughing so hard, Stan just sighs as his bout continues, and when he feels it's gone on too long leans ever so slightly on his horn. Kyle brings himself back into the car then and Stan pulls out of the driveway, driving the fuck away, just to anywhere but here.

"Jesus Christ, your family's fucked, dude," Kyle sighs happily to himself, laughter still in his voice.

"Thanks a lot," Stan replies gravely. He hears Kyle cluck his tongue just before he feels him clap him on the shoulder and give him a squeeze.

"Don't worry dude," Kyle says. "You'll be greatly rewarded in the afterlife or some shit." Stan snorts and looks at Kyle out of the corner of his eye. His hair is all picked out and frizzy, like he's been touching it too much for the curls to remain intact, and he's still all smiley like he always is after laughing so hard for so long, and Stan just kind of wants… fuck, he doesn't know. He doesn't know and it's fucking frustrating and it's starting to make Stan think that, for the first time in twenty years, things with Kyle might be a little more complicated than he'd like to believe.

Fuck, he needs a drink.

Or six.

Enough to make him feel like a normal human being again, like he's happy and got a reason for being alive. Kenny usually gets him there pretty efficiently, although recently he's been a little more hesitant to liquor him up quite as much.

They get to the bar and walk in. Eleven o'clock on a Thursday night didn't find too many people in the bar—some of the younger people in town and, of course, Kenny and Butters at the bar.

Quite honestly, Stan doesn't like the look of it. Kenny's leaning toward Butters and they're whispering together, Kenny looking worried and Butters looking… a little out of sorts. Stan and Kyle walk over and sit beside him, Stan beside Butters and Kyle on the end.

"Hey, guys," Kenny greets them, smiling a little. There's something off about him, but Stan, dickish a sentiment as it is, can't find it in himself to be bothered. He asks Kenny for a beer and puts his head down on the bar, which, in a rare turn of events, provokes Kyle into being the sensitive one.

"You okay?" he asks Kenny and Stan can only assume that Kenny nods. Stan looks back up and over at Butters, who's drumming his fingertips on the bar surface, pouting like a petulant school child and nursing…

"Is that a Shirley Temple?" Stan asks, the thought of anything non-alcoholic actually turning his stomach at the moment.

"I don't know, is it?" Butters said very pointedly, not looking away from Kenny. Kenny just rolls his eyes and puts a couple of beers in front of Stan and Kyle.

"Whoa, whoa," Kyle holds up a hand as Stan takes the first icy gulp and then points down at his own beer. "What if I want a mixed drink?"

"Then I'll know the body snatchers have gotten you and I can shoot you without remorse," Kenny replies with an eye roll before he turns to Stan and with a smile and tersely continues, "and yes, that's a Shirley Temple."

"Why?" Stan asks.

"Because some _asshole_ thinks I can't handle my liquor," Butters states very vehemently and takes a long, noisy sip of the drink through his straw. Kenny just rolls his eyes again, like he's been dealing with this all night, and turns back to Stan and Kyle.

"How're you guys doing?" he asks.

"Don't ignore me, jackass!" Butters reaches over the bar and pinches Kenny on the arm.

"I'm not ignoring you, fuck!" Kenny scowls and grabs his arm. "And don't pinch me with your little fucking gremlin claws."

Stan watches as Butters blows out a deep breath through his lips and leans on one of his arms, looking at Kenny like he's a rotten, mean son of a bitch who's never given him anything he wants ever. Then Stan notices that his knee is bouncing like crazy, and that he's pulling at his earring and chewing on his lips.

And not in the sexy way people bite their own lips to seem alluring, either. He's actually chewing on his lower lip so hard that Stan can tell it's about one half-hearted chomp away from gushing blood.

"Dude, Butters, are you all right?" Stan asks. Butters looks over at him and gives him a smile.

"Fine," he says and turns his attention back to Kenny. "Say, lover, you got a quarter for that jukebox over there?"

"I'll do you one better and give you two," Kenny nods and pulls two quarters out of his pocket, like he's expecting Butters to ask him this all night. Butters grins and leans over the bar to kiss him on the cheek, before running over to the jukebox and pressing his face to the glass.

"What the fuck was that?" Kyle asks so Stan doesn't have to.

"He's fine, guys," Kenny insists a little too vehemently. Stan takes another gulp of his beer and sets it back on the bar, happy for the distraction from his own shitty problems for once.

"My good sir, I do not believe that's what we asked," he points out, which makes Kyle nod and toss out a "Quite right," before he sips gingerly at his drink. Kenny just purses his lips, looks from one of them to the other and smirks.

"You two fuck yet?" he asks.

"Foul," Kyle declares and shakes his head. "Over the line. You can't just change the subject like that."

"That's what we in the industry call," Stan makes a gesture with his hands. "Being an avoidant cockface."

"Indeed," Kyle nods. Kenny just shakes his head and is about to reply, but something loud and definitely straight out of the _Gay Man's Almanac: 1970-1979_ blares out of the speakers and Butters is all of a sudden back at the bar and leaning into Kyle's personal space.

"Anyone wanna dance?" he asks. Kyle and Stan both shake their heads, while Butters looks to Kenny with that hopeful look on his boyish face. Kenny sighs and pulls him into an affectionate little kiss that makes Stan's nose wrinkle. He thinks he sees Kyle notice this just before he turns his head but he can't be sure.

"I'm working right now," he hears Kenny say softly.

"You're really beating 'em off with both hands," Kyle remarks dryly and Stan turns to see that two people have just left the already empty-ish bar. He snorts and knocks one of his knees against Kyle's.

Kyle bumps against him right back, and Stan feels a little more okay than he did a second ago.

"Then can we go in the back and fuck?" Butters asks instead, like this is a viable alternative to dancing. Stan looks over and sees Kenny considering this for about half a second longer than usual before he unties his apron and comes out from behind the bar. He puts an arm around Butters' shoulders and leans in close. In spite of the fact that he's whispering, Stan can still make out something along the lines of _'will that make you feel better?'_

Butters nods in response and pulls him into another kiss, this one a little sloppier and not at all appropriate for public codes of decency, and Stan puts his head back on the bar. He can _hear _them kissing and it's actually making him kind of mad.

Like… why do they get to be so fucking happy.

"So, uh," Kenny says as he's being dragged off toward the bathroom. "Beers are in that chest right over there, and if anyone asks for a mixed drink just tell 'em to fuck off for, like… ten minutes?"

"At least," Butters agrees and with that they're gone. Stan looks up, like the reign of terror is over, only to find that Kyle's moved behind the bar, drumming his fingers on the worn wooden surface and looking pensively at Stan. Stan finishes off his beer in one last go and sets the empty bottle roughly back on the bar.

"You okay?" Kyle asks and tosses the bottle into the recycling.

"I don't know," Stan shakes his head and moves to drink Kyle's beer.

"People kiss every day, y'know," Kyle says and takes the bottle from Stan, setting it back behind the bar where he can't reach it. "Hell, I've even seen you do it a few hundred times before."

"Dude, don't," Stan groans and rubs at his eyebrows with his thumbs. "I can't fucking look at it anymore, what the fuck makes you think I want to talk about it?"

"Sometimes it's good to talk shit out," Kyle shrugs. "I mean, I don't have to since I'm a cyborg sent back from the future to warn everyone of the impending dystopia we're all hurtling toward, but, y'know, for humans I hear it's a highly effective method."

"Dude, fuck off," Stan smiles just a bit and leans his forearms on the bar. "I don't know… I haven't kissed anyone in ages. Just fucking seems weird."

"Kissing someone seems weird?" Kyle raises an eyebrow. "Dude, it's not, like, pissing on someone or anything. It's a normal thing."

"You kiss everyone you fuck?" Stan asks, cocking his head in what he hopes is a manner of the utmost skepticism.

"No, but I'm not ducking for cover every time I see someone else kiss someone," Kyle points out and leans down so he's close to Stan's face. "I think it's just been so long that you're actually getting a little scared of it again."

"Fuck off," Stan gives a little laugh and rolls his eyes. He's feeling a little uncomfortable, yeah, because Kyle's really close to him and everything, but he's also not, like… running for the hills or anything.

Because it's Kyle.

Kyle is the least threatening person in his life.

"Do me a favor," he says, giving Stan a look of mock seriousness. "If you feel like you're gonna barf, just turn your head and do it not on me, okay?"

And before Stan can even make the connection, Kyle leans forward and pushes their lips together. Soft, simple, and not quite the nauseating experience Stan thought it would be.

It's actually kind of nice.

And it's over way too fast. Kyle pulls away, a little smile tugging at his lips as he reaches up and puts a hand on Stan's cheek. Only to pull alway slightly and give him a light little slap a moment later.

This brings Stan into consciousness, out of wherever it's okay that this happened and back into the very real world of '_oh holy fuck this just happened'_. Kyle's cheeks are a little pink, but for the most part he looks like he's going to let whatever the hell this is slide out of sight and out of mind.

"I—" Stan begins, but Kyle looks at him and the words get caught in his throat. Kyle's looking like he knows exactly what they've done, what's happened, and what it means, and, moreover, he looks entirely like he's not going to tell Stan any of this. As expected, he just lets out a little sigh and… fuck it, why's he laughing?

"Fuck, dude," he chuckles. "That was really fucking stupid. I'm sorry."

"Why?" Stan finds himself asking before he can stop himself.

"Because," Kyle continues through another laugh, more nervous this time. "Uh, because it's not something we do?"

"I meant, why'd you do it to begin with," Stan says, a little sadly if only because that seemed like something Kyle would've been able to answer properly without Stan prompting him further. Kyle nods and gives a little 'ah,' like he was afraid that that's what Stan meant, and Stan feels a little better.

A little.

"I don't know, dude," Kyle just sighs and slumps against the counter, fingers tangling in his hair as he looks in the woodwork on the bar for an answer. "Just kinda felt like it was something I should do."

"Why, though?" Stan persists, and Kyle just rolls his eyes and gives him a look. Stan shrinks back just a little and starts chewing on his thumbnail again, which only prompts Kyle to give him another look.

"Dude, my impulse control," Kyle just says. "You know it's, like, nonexistent."

Stan frowns, because that's bullshit if he's ever heard it, and leans forward a bit. He catches Kyle's eye again and they look at each other for a moment—man, they've been doing that a lot lately—before Stan closes the gap between them again.

It's no more remarkable than the first kiss, except Kyle lets a little breath out of his nose and it makes Stan kind of want to grab him by the face and shove his tongue down his throat. Only the thought of that makes Stan kind of dizzy and he has to pull back.

"What, uh," Kyle swallows. "What the fuck was that?"

"Poor impulse control?" Stan offers and Kyle just glares. He looks like he's about to say something when Kenny comes out of the back of the bar, zipping up his pants and whistling like he's not even _trying_ to be subtle about what he's just done. Kyle and Stan both stay stock still, hoping Kenny will just walk back behind the bar like everything's hunky dory and he hasn't noticed a thing, but.

Obviously, things never go their way. Kenny instead looks up at them both and, not a moment after, smiles like a self-satisfied cat.

"Well, well," he says as he moves back behind the bar. "What have you boys been getting up to while I've been gone?"

"Finally fucked Butters into oblivion?" Kyle shoots back. Kenny just shakes his head, obviously too fucked out to do anything other than that, and steps back behind the counter. Kyle comes to sit beside Stan again, knee knocking and resting against his, and Stan feels his cheeks get very hot. Kenny seems to notice this and bounces his eyebrows.

"Okay, so," Kenny braces himself on the bar and looks from Stan to Kyle and back again. "First thing you have to know: there's no such thing as too much lube."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Kyle rolls his eyes as Butters comes out of the back now, grinning like an idiot and bouncing back to the bar. Stan and Kyle both look back at him as he slurps down about half of his abandoned Shirley Temple in one go. He then realizes he's being stared at and looks up, pulling back with a gasp and smiling.

"Gotta replenish the fluids," he offers, which elicits a pair of groans from both Stan and Kyle.

"Okay," Stan declares and stands. "I think it's time to go." Kyle nods as he pounds back the rest of his beer and stands.

"Yeah, maybe Cartman's finally done fucking your sister," he smirks at Kenny.

"Aw, fucking sick," Kenny laughs, and Butters laughs too, but it's all high-pitched and forced sounding and Stan is kind of wondering whether or not he's okay. He'd stick around and ask but Kyle's already halfway to the door and, where a beer's got Stan back to feeling only marginally normal, Kyle's probably starting to get the first happy hums of a buzz skimming merrily over his brain.

So, he tells Kenny he'll talk to him later, slaps some money down on the counter, and follows Kyle out to the parking lot, where he's taken to standing beside the car and looking up at the sky. It's set to snow sometime tonight, leaving South Park enshrouded under a dark canopy of clouds. Stan comes up next to him and leans on the car, following Kyle's gaze upward in an attempt to puzzle out just what the fuck he's looking at.

"I give up," Stan says. "What's up there?"

"Nothing," Kyle shakes his head. "Hey, can I kiss you again?"

It's a weird request, mostly because it's Kyle and up until five minutes ago that was something that they didn't do. Also, though, on some level Stan recognizes the words as something he'd say to girls back in high school… back when he still kissed people and gave two shits about them.

"Uh, yeah," Stan finds himself saying. "I mean—just, sure."

Kyle looks at him, like he's making sure it's okay on top of what he's already asked, before he leans forward and captures Stan's lips in his. It's still weird, but Kyle doesn't appear to be in any rush; it's just a quick little thing, something Stan's sure he's doing over and over to make sure that he likes it as much as he thinks he does.

Kyle backs Stan against the car and shakily cups his face in his hands, licking tentatively along Stan's upper lip and _Jesus fucking Christ_. It's sending Stan's stomach into back flips, making his entire gut clench in a way that doesn't generally happen outside of drinking too much.

When Kyle actually licks inside his mouth, Stan fucking _hears_ himself whimper and it makes him want to throw himself under a bus. He shouldn't be enjoying this, he can't help but think.

Then again, Kyle gets him to do all sorts of things he shouldn't, so this is hardly out of the norm.

"Hey," Kyle pulls away, breath fanning across Stan's lips. "Hey, can we get in the car?"

"Uh, yeah," Stan frowns and turns to unlock the door. The moment he hears the locks lift Kyle pulls Stan into the back seat and kisses him again, a little more urgently this time. He's got one hand on Stan's thigh, and it's not bad. Kyle's not like Kenny, who tries to be too close for comfort on purpose just to annoy Stan—he knows Stan's limits. Stan's not sure how, but on the whole he's always been good about knowing what's okay between them.

Like, even Stan didn't know that necking in the back seat of his car would fall under the "This is Okay" category, but Kyle somehow did.

Fuck, Kyle hasn't even been back for a week and already they've gone further just dicking around than Stan had gone with Wendy in the first two years of their intensely dramatic high school relationship.

But then again, Kyle and Stan declared themselves 'best friends' within three days of meeting each other; slow and steady really isn't their thing.

Which is why Stan's not pushing Kyle's hand away as it comes to palm him through his slacks. In fact, it's why Stan nips at Kyle's lips and starts unzipping his jacket like he's… like this is something that they've done a thousand times before. Kyle's hands feel good on him, although that could just be a result of not having had anything but his right hand for entertainment for the last few weeks.

"Can I touch you?"

Oddly enough, it's Stan who asks that. Why the fuck would he ask that? Stan's never wanted to touch, let alone jerk off another guy in his life, but right now it seems like the best idea he's ever had.

That, and if he lets Kyle make this particular first move, Stan feels kind of like he's never going to hear the end of it.

Kyle pulls back a little, looking at Stan all glazed over and a little lust-drunk, before he sheds his jacket completely and rids Stan of his too. He ducks back in, attempting to kiss him again probably, but only succeeding in bumping their noses together in a rather ungracious manner. Stan can't help it—he laughs.

And then Kyle laughs.

And then they're both laughing, heads bowed together, and suddenly sticking his hand in Kyle's pants doesn't seem as daunting as it should. Stan runs the back of his knuckles up Kyle's leg and over the outline of his half-hard dick, and he actually fucking shudders. Oh fuck, Stan wants to make him come undone.

"Hang on," Kyle breathes and pulls back. "I'm just gonna, like… sit against something."

"Yeah," Stan finds himself nodding as Kyle leans against the door and starts unbuttoning his jeans. "Yeah, okay. Good."

Kyle laughs a little bit and slides his pants down a little bit, just past his ass, so he can reach into his boxers and start touching himself.

"Dude, let me—" Stan begins, but Kyle's head thunks back against the window as his eyes slip shut and Stan actually cannot form words after that. It's in that moment that he realizes that he'd actually sit there and watch Kyle play with himself all fucking night if that was what Kyle wanted. Stan sincerely hopes that's not the case.

"C'mere," he hears Kyle say, and without hesitation he crawls over, situated soundly between Kyle's legs, and awaits further instructions. Kyle looks at him then and takes his hand off of his dick, shifting so he can push his boxers down to join his pants and just licks his lips. Stan looks down and, no joke, thinks his heart may jump right the fuck out of his chest.

That's a dick.

He's looking at Kyle's dick, laying flat against his belly and leaking into his t-shirt.

And, like… he's not even mad about it.

Tentatively, he runs his thumb up the underside of it, tracing along a vein from base to tip, and feels a bit lightheaded when he feels wetness of Kyle's precome on his skin.

"Fuck, dude," Kyle breathes, all high and thin and desperate, and Stan takes the hint. He grips Kyle in a loose fist and gives him an experimental little tug. And another. And soon he's built up an uncertain, but fairly steady rhythm, one that's got Kyle's eyelids all fluttery and Stan wondering why in the hell they didn't think to do this sooner.

Then again, he still doesn't know what's got his cock more interested—the fact that Kyle's a guy, or that Kyle's Kyle.

He decides he'll worry about it later, when Kyle's adam's apple stops bobbing and he stops making those throaty groans that have Stan itching to grab himself and go.

"'s'it gonna gross you out if I spit in my hand?" Stan asks, and immediately realizes it's the wrong thing to say when Kyle opens up his eyes and gives him _that look_. "What?"

"Don't fucking ask me, dickhead," Kyle breathes. Stan frowns a little and gives him an extra-tight squeeze as a punishment. Or something.

"I don' t know," Stan says. "You're the one who flips his shit over bodily fluids."

"You're not unzipping your fly and pissing on my cock, dude," Kyle rolls his eyes. He's maintaining his erection rather magnificently, which makes Stan wonder if he gets off on arguing as much as everyone thinks he does.

"That's the second—" Stan gulps when he hears Kyle whisper out a little '_fuck…_' when Stan thumbs at his slit. "That's the second time you've mentioned pissing on people tonight."

"Fuck it, asshole, are you going to spit in your hand or not?" Kyle snaps, thrusting up into Stan's fist and tugging at his own hair. This makes Stan pull back for a second and bring his hand to his mouth. He can smell Kyle thick on his skin, which possesses him not to spit, but lick his palm in broad strokes before returning to his ministrations.

He realizes after a second that he now knows what Kyle tastes like, more or less, and feels like it's something that he's actually fascinated by.

Almost like he now knows everything about this human being that he holds in the palm of his hand, even though Stan knows that can't be further from the truth.

"Shit," Stan hears Kyle groan as he bucks up into his hand. It's all the warning he gets before Kyle comes in sticky white spurts all over Stan's hand and his t-shirt, grunting and thrusting and _definitely_ making the car rock back and forth.

While Kyle catches his breath, Stan looks around for something to wipe his hand on, and settles on an old concert program from a few years ago that's somehow ended up stuffed under his seat. By the time he's crumpled the paper and tossed it somewhere onto the floor, Kyle's already all zipped back up and somehow not at all bothered by the blotch of come on his shirt.

"Dude," he laughs instead, eyes on Stan's crotch. "That looks painful."

"Oh, uh," Stan looks down at his dick's blatant disregard for discretion and tact and laughs. "Yeah, a bit."

Except yeah, it's a lot. His balls are heavy and his erection is throbbing in an annoying persistence that feels like it will never go away no matter how many times he comes.

"Can I?" Kyle asks, already running his fingers up Stan's legs because he knows Stan won't say no. Stan just makes quick work of his fly and pushes both his pants and boxers down over his hips. Kyle wastes no time, just grabs Stan and starts pumping like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And Stan actually sort of loves it. Kyle's hand is sure and steady on him, making Stan slump back into the seat and shut his eyes. If he keeps them open and even dares to look down at Kyle's hand wrapped around his dick, he's going to lose it and shoot his wad like a fourteen-year-old during his first heavy petting session.

He doesn't remember Wendy's hand feeling this good on him, or anyone's hand for that matter.

It doesn't take a lot, mostly because Stan's been ridiculously hard for so long that he can't keep a proper amount of composure once Kyle falls into a steady rhythm. He bucks up and writhes under Kyle's hand and thinks that maybe he should be worried about the fact that another human being affects him like this, but then Kyle's hand suddenly speeds up and Stan's swearing and twitching and coming hard into Kyle's hand.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, motionless save for catching his breath, only that when he finally opens his eyes that Kyle is finally looking at his shirt and hoping vaguely that it isn't ruined. Then he realizes Stan's lookig at him and smiles.

"Feel better?" he asks. He knows Stan had a shitty week, and knows even further that Stan was in desperate need of a pick-me-up. Stan just nods and runs a hand through his messy hair.

"Handjobs," he says, like he's remarking on the unexpected efficiency of a cheap vacuum cleaner. Kyle nods and smears the mess on his shirt.

"Who knew, right?" he laughs lightly and looks up at Stan. He's all flushed and Stan can kind of see the light dusting of freckles over his cheeks. Stan doesn't even think about it now, just leans over and pushes a light kiss to Kyle's mouth. When he pulls away, Kyle looks a little like he's been struck dumb, like he's never kissed anyone after a sexual act before in his life.

"Hey, so I bet it's safe to go back to your place again," Kyle says and climbs up into the front seat. Stan feels his chest constrict a little bit, but it figures. He always expects either too little or too much with this kind of thing, seemingly cursed with an inability to see things for what they are. He just tucks himself back into his pants and tries to make it look like he hasn't been doing anything too suspicious, though the white smear on his pants would lead everyone to believe otherwise.

"You're not pissed, are you?" Stan finds himself asking as he climbs back into the driver's seat and starts the car.

"Dude, no," Kyle scoffs. "I've got come all over my shirt, and you're probably gonna have to get new slacks… I want to change."

"Jerking each other off isn't too weird for you?" Stan clears his throat.

"That's not even the weirdest thing I've done for you today," Kyle rolls his eyes. "I went and watched a bunch of thirteen year olds sing songs about being merry and shit. I hate children and I hate merriment."

Stan can hear the "but I love you" in the back of Kyle's throat, and even though the words never make it out Stan can't keep himself from smiling.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to all who're reading and reviewing an' sech. I'm sorry this is really slow goings, but I'm pulling the school card. Sehr original, I know. <strong>

**Also, their relationship IS supposed to be progressing this quickly. I feel it's only fair to tell you that the nature of their problems won't be based in 'zomg wer boyfrennns nao bcuz we had sexii teims'. **

**They've got actual stuff they have to work out. You're just going to have to trust me when I tell you that I have a plan, okay? Okay. **

**I love you all. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Kyle's not entirely sure why he kissed Stan.

It seemed like a good idea t the time, and he _had_ gotten a hand job out of it, so, y'know… he's had worse ideas. He's just a little confused as to _why_ he did it in the first place.

Okay, so he knows _why _he did it on a logical level. Stan was being an idiot, Kyle knocked some sense into him. Simple. The method by which he'd achieved said knocking? Simple, but not without complication, and that's what's frustrating about the whole thing. It's complicated because it's _Stan. _Jerking off some random at your roommate's birthday party is not the same as jerking off your best friend in the back of his car, and Kyle knows this.

He can't really wrap his head around why it _shouldn't_ be the same, but that's neither here nor there.

What's 'here' is that it's Saturday, and that means Ike is coming home. Kyle hates to admit it, but out of everyone (Stan and Kenny excluded), he'd missed Ike the most when he'd gone away to school. Ike's smart, in every single way that Kyle is and more, and, what's _even_ more is that he's actually super fucking mellow about everything.

If anyone can put Kyle's life into perspective, it's Ike.

He lets his parents pick him up from the airport, mostly because his mom misses her little boy and Kyle thinks that she and his dad need to do this together; they can be a family later on today, when Kyle's not tucked up against Stan and feeling unsettlingly content.

He realizes it's a contradiction, 'unsettlingly content', but that's exactly what this feeling is so fuck everything. Things have never felt complicated with Stan and now they do a little bit, but waking up huddled under Stan's comforter, heater blasting and that very distinct Stan smell all cocooning him, makes him disgustingly happy, and a little hard.

He checks his phone, and upon realizing that he should've been awake and back at home two hours ago, figures his parents probably just left to get Ike in the hopes he'd be home when they got back. He doesn't want to get up, though. Stan's bed is always warm, because Stan is like a furnace and carries his warmth with him, like a normal mammal should, while Kyle seems to somehow be reptilian and is never warm without an outside source. Stan used to switch jackets with him in high school for this very reason. Winters by himself in Boston for the last few years have definitely been colder than he's used to.

Plus, his jacket always smelled like Stan by the time he got home, so there was that.

Kyle feels Stan stir beside him and lets out an involuntary sigh when he shifts against his hard-on. They didn't do anything last night; Stan had been tired, in spite of having the day off, after having spent the day in Denver with Shelly, doing something she called 'pre-"wedding gown hunting" hunting', which consisted of nothing more than hopping from bridal shop to bridal shop and trying on dresses, while Kyle had used up most of his time and energy talking what seemed like an entire office back east through a computer crisis for most of the day. They'd done little more than collapse in a heap on Stan's bed after eating dinner with Sharon and Shelly, talking softly with fluttering eyelids about what they'd done that day and how much they hated every human being they'd ever met.

Kyle thinks Stan may have tried to kiss him at one point, but Kyle had moved his face away. Kissing and talking about your day seemed too weirdly intimate for them—they'd been debriefing each other without kisses for the last two decades, and it seems to have been working out just fine for them.

Kyle's of the mind that you shouldn't attempt to fix something that's not broken, though in this case it would really only be a useless modification at best.

"'morning," Stan greets through a bleary smile. His voice is low and scratchy and it makes the pull in Kyle's gut more insistent. He leans forward just a bit and pushes his lips to Stan's, morning breath be damned. He likes Stan's lips (enough to keep kissing him, at least), and likes even more that Stan seems to like Kyle's lips just as much. They kiss each other awake at a lazy pace, Stan's hands tangling in Kyle's hair and tugging softly while Kyle gently probes his mouth with his tongue.

Right now, Kyle kind of doesn't give a shit about whatever complications crop up with this. Stan rolls so he's on top, pinning Kyle's wrists to the bed and rubbing soft circles against the heels of his hands with his thumbs. Kyle bucks up just a bit when Stan nips at his bottom lip, and silently starts a little cheer in his head when it becomes apparent that Stan's hand is moving toward his dick.

Only then there's a booming knock on the door and Stan practically flies off of Kyle for no reason other than _'oh no, we might get caught'_.

They're twenty-three. Sharon's cool and, let's be honest, she's caught them doing worse. Nevertheless, Stan hurtles himself out of bed and starts rummaging through his dresser, trying to act natural and busy before he tells her she can come in.

When she opens the door, Kyle can see she's got her coat on and a piece of paper in her hand.

"'morning, sweetheart," she says and looks past him so she can wave at Kyle. "You too, sweetheart."

"Hi, Sharon," Kyle raises a hand in greeting and ducks back under the blankets, which are still ridiculously warm and smelling of Stan.

"As you can see your sister already gave me a list of provisions," she says, and Kyle laughs from his place under the blankets because he _loves _snarky Sharon. "Is there anything you need while I'm there?"

"No, uh, I think I'm good," Stan replies. Kyle doesn't have to see him to know that he's shifting like a nervous little kid.

"Nothing," she reiterates, like the nearest store is a two-day hike away and that this is Stan's last chance to get something he needs. "Gatorade, power bars…"

"Mom," Stan warns.

"Condoms?"

"Aw, mom, what the hell!" Stan groans, and if Kyle wasn't bright red (or sporting major wood) he'd come out from under the covers and go about getting ready to leave or something innocent like that.

"Oh honey, please," Sharon dismisses. "I'm teasing. You and I both know your social life isn't exactly demanding you get condoms this instant."

"Mom!" Stan yelps, this time over Sharon's laughter.

"Oh, stop taking everything so seriously," she manages to say through her fit of hysteria. Kyle's kind of bummed that he didn't get to see Stan's face when she said that, because he's willing to bet that it was golden. He pops his head out and sits up just as Stan slams his dresser drawers shut and sits back down on the bed

"I don't like you when you're cheerful," he mutters, and even though Kyle can only see the back of him he knows that he looks like a petulant five-year-old. Sharon laughs harder and comes over to kiss him on the forehead.

"I can't help it," she says. "I told your sister I have Christmas shopping to do all day, which means that you're stuck here looking through bridal magazines with her."

"Aw, no fucking way I'm doing that!" Stan whines as Kyle barks out a laugh and grabs his backpack from where it rests on the floor near the foot of the bed.

"She's already downstairs, setting up her little workspace on the dining table," Sharon laughs. "So while you're doing that, I'll be busy doing my Christmas shopping."

"You're gonna get a massage at that one place from that one guy who looks like Bradley Cooper, aren't you?" Stan asks, like it's the worst thing he could accuse her of.

"Honey, wouldn't you?" Sharon asks gives him a pointed look over the wire rims of her reading glasses. Kyle laughs as Stan gives a humiliated little groan and hides his face in his hands. Sharon bids them both a chipper farewell before she shuts the door and Stan is free to shove at Kyle for laughing so hard.

"You're such a dick," Stan mutters and flops back on the bed. Kyle snorts and looks back at him, feeling only a little bad when he sees Stan's thumbs attempting to rub the tension out of his brow, before sighing rolling out of bed to get dressed.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Stan asks now, propping himself up on his elbows and scowling. Kyle grins and goes to sit on the edge of the bed so he can put on his sneakers without falling over, nudged right up against Stan so he can feel the heat coming off of his leg.

"I told you Ike's coming home today," Kyle replies as Stan sits up. Kyle looks over at him and smiles, and doesn't even mind when Stan leans forward and gives him a kiss. Stan's always been the more affectionate type anyway; Kyle figures he shouldn't expect him to be anything less under this new… well, this new whatever the fuck this is.

"You need a ride home?" Stan mumbles against Kyle's mouth.

"In a minute," Kyle hums and pulls Stan back in, sliding their lips back together as he runs his thumbs along his jaw. He's getting a little scruffy, and if they sit here macking like this for too long Kyle's pretty sure he's going to come away with mad stubble burn. So he pulls away and gives Stan a little smile before nipping on his bottom lip and telling him to get dressed.

Kyle shoulders his bag and follows Stan downstairs, where Shelly is already calling for help in the dining room. Stan rolls his eyes as Kyle puts his hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh. They both walk over to the dining table and balk at the amount of wedding shit Shelly has managed do accumulate through the first week of her engagement.

"Hey, Shel, I have to take Kyle home," Stan says before she can even ask him for anything.

"While you're out, get me another of these magazines," she holds up one that Kyle doesn't bother identifying.

"Why do you need another one?" Stan asks, taking a step back so his back is pressed against Kyle's chest. Kyle's not sure if Stan's trying to hint to Shelly that there's something going on, or if he knows Shelly's just so self absorbed that she won't notice and he can do whatever he wants.

"I need it because I cut something out on one page that I wanted to cut out on the one behind it," Shelly snarls, holding the scissors rather menacingly, but Stan just looks at her and blinks.

"You're serious," he says. "I have to buy you a whole new magazine, because you didn't have the foresight to turn a page before you cut something out."

"Just shut up and get it for me, turdface," she snaps, "Or I'll tell Eric that you and your little butt buddy are fucking."

"Why's that a threat?" Kyle frowns, resting his chin on Stan's shoulder as he watches her glower at the both of them. "It's both untrue and ineffective, since we're not actually _afraid_ of Cartman."

"Dude, regardless," Stan interjects, like Kyle's being too dismissive of this. "You know Cartman, he'll—"

"Hey!" Shelly stands, poising the scissors now at Stan's throat. "Don't talk shit about my fiancé while I'm in the room, butthole."

Kyle bites down on Stan's shoulder to keep himself from laughing, but it's too late. Shelly's already seen him falter and she's about two seconds away from beating the two of them into a pulp. Kyle tugs on Stan's sleeve and gives Shelly a little wave before they're out and in the car. They drive over to Kyle's, even though it's an easy walk that Kyle should probably make anyway since he hasn't been running since Thursday.

It's too cold, though, and Stan's car and body are too warm for Kyle to say 'no' without getting his head examined. So, they drive back to Kyle's house without saying much and discover upon arrival that yes, Operation: Get Ike from Airport has already been put into effect. So, Kyle invites Stan inside for some breakfast.

"I think we may have toaster waffles or something," Kyle says as he pulls open the freezer. "I mean, they're probably for Ike or whatever, but I don't think he'll give two shits if you take a few."

"What're you gonna eat?" Stan yawns as he pulls out a chair and sits himself at the dining table.

"Eh, eggs or something," Kyle shrugs, even though his cholesterol is probably through the roof with all the shit he's been eating lately. He doesn't like to think about his health and shit, or anyone's for that matter, but he knows eating and what he puts in his body are what he actually can control about being diabetic, so he tries to take solace in that.

Of course, when you go from living a very balanced and healthy lifestyle to eating nothing but bacon, eggs, and cheese for most of your daily caloric intake, that doesn't bode well for anything.

"Maybe just the egg whites," he amends, and only scowls a little when Stan snorts and calls him a fag.

"Or I could make pancakes," he suggests. "In the shape of the giant cock you should suck."

"Yeah, giant?" Stan considers through a skeptical wince. "Don't flatter yourself too much there."

Kyle socks him on the shoulder and can feel himself going bright red as Stan howls with laughter.

"Hey, don't laugh your ass off before I get the chance to put my dick in it," he shoots back.

"Oh, like hell you're putting your dick up my ass!" Stan exclaims, entirely sobered by the thought, apparently. His eyes are the size of dinner plates as he shakes his head.

"Well, not now," Kyle rolls his eyes, only feeling a little bad because that's a fuck of a claim to make. "Hence the antecedent 'one day'."

"Ever," Stan keeps shaking his head. "I'm fucking you if and when the time comes, pal."

"You fucking wish, pussbag," Kyle laughs now. "I top the hell out of you any day of the fucking week."

"Hang on," Stan holds up a halting hand. "You said who's sticking his dick in who."

"Yeah, so?" Kyle shrugs.

"That's different than topping," Stan says, like this is knowledge everyone has and that Kyle's being ignorant for thinking otherwise. It makes Kyle groan and rub his hands over his face.

"Fuck it, you call Kenny right now and ask him," Stan points at where Kyle's cell phone sits in his pocket.

"I'm not calling Kenny and asking him that," Kyle glares at him.

"'Cause you know I'm fucking right!" Stan announces, a little too triumphantly for Kyle's taste. He descends upon Stan, hovering over him like a vulture, and bends down so that their faces are level.

"You don't think I'll get your ass, do you?" he asks, voice low and lips dangerously close to Stan's.

"No, I don't," Stan laughs and shakes his head.

"You're saying that I'll cave and beg you to fuck me before you do?" Kyle continues, making sure to put every ounce of sarcasm he can muster into his voice.

"Yep," Stan just nods.

"I'll give up."

"Uh-huh."

"_Me_," Kyle cocks a brow and smirks. Stan looks like he knows he's entered the realm of something more when he sees that smile, but doesn't back down.

"I'll bet you a hundred dollars I get your ass before you get mine," Stan extends his hand, looking Kyle dead in the eye. Kyle laughs a little, because of all the bets they've made over the years, this is by far the strangest, but takes Stan's hand and shakes.

"You dumb fuck," he shakes his head, even though he can't keep the affection out of his voice. "You think you can be more of a hard-headed jackass than me."

He punctuates this with a firm kiss to Stan's lips before he moves back to the fridge.

Omelets, he thinks.

By the time they're done eating (and have admittedly made out a little more than Kyle would have expected them to do on his mother's favorite couch) Stan's already gotten three texts from Shelly telling him to get his ass back home. So, Stan thanks him for breakfast, apologizes for not being able to say hi to Ike, and dodders off about five minutes before Kyle's parents get home. It's just enough time for Kyle to jerk off up in his room and return to a look of vague innocence before he hears Ike thundering up the stairs.

He doesn't know why he jumps when Ike bursts into his room, but it doesn't even matter anyway. He stands only a second before Ike means to pummel him, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing the very life out of him, it feels. His hair is shaggy and long; he's wearing a tiedye sweatshirt.

Whoever the fuck let this kid go to school in Oregon needs to have their head examined. Even if Ike is happy and that's "all anyone can ask".

Ike's always happy, so it's kind of a moot point.

"Hey, dude," Kyle just laughs as he crushes Ike back against him. Okay, so affection isn't really his thing but, goddamn, he really misses Ike. "How'd finals and shit go?"

"Ugh, fuck that noise," Ike snorts and goes to sit on Kyle's bed. He looks at him for a second and then gives him a knowing little smile. "What's with the beard burn?"

Kyle stops cold. Ike's smirking at him, like he's just found a stack of dirty magazines under Kyle's bed, and Kyle brings his hand up to rub at his face. Fuck, he does feel a little tender. He goes out into the hall to check his reflection in the mirror and sees that there in fact _are_—son of a bitch—red blotches on his face... and a fucking _hickey_ on his neck that just barely gets covered by the collar of his shirt. _Jesus fucking Christ, Stan_.

He comes back into his room and shuts the door behind him, looking to Ike where he sits looking smug on the bed. He lets out a breath and steels his gaze.

"You can't fucking tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," he warns and Ike barks out a laugh.

"Who the fuck am I gonna call, the Pentagon?" he asks. Kyle concedes. It's a fair point; Ike's only friend in South Park is the little goth kid Kyle's never bothered to get to know and, seriously, like he'd care.

"Okay, so," Kyle begins. "Stan—"

"Oh, I relish in this already," Ike says with a self satisfied sigh. "Off you go with your story."

"Dude, stop fucking watching Graham Norton," Kyle frowns and sits in his desk chair. Ike's got an obsession with British TV that all started with watching BBC news and only escalated once he got to school. "So, like… I got back, right?"

"Riveting."

"And Stan and I started hanging out and I told him I—shit. Don't fucking laugh or anything," he says and Ike just shrugs. "I told him I messed around with a guy back in Boston—"

"Shut the fuck up, you did not!" Ike laughs, like he's been waiting years to have this conversation.

"Goddamn it, Ike," Kyle sighs and buries his face in his hands. He's not used to feelings, and even more when he _has_ feelings he's not used to letting them out quite in this way. But the words aren't going to stop. He's already too deep in and if he stops now he'll probably have a heart attack and die.

"Sorry, keep going."

And then it's like a fucking floodgate opens and Kyle's powerless to stop it.

"I told Stan about it and he starts acting all weird and staring at me and one thing led to a-fucking-nother because _of course_ it did and we jerked each other off on Thursday in his car and now he's all kissing me and affectionate and it's cool but it's _Stan_ and I'm just like… kind of freaking out about it and I just don't want anything to get _weird_ but I think it already might be and I just don't fucking know anymore."

Ike's eyes are big by the time Kyle finishes, looking off to the side like he's unsure of whether or not his response is going to be helpful.

Hint: it probably won't be.

"Dude, just fucking calm down," he says. "It's not a big fucking deal unless you want it to be. Believe me, I've counseled many a young lady through experimental phases."

"Shut the fuck up," Kyle whines and buries his face in his hands. "This isn't some dickhead I don't know; it's Stan."

"Well, be up front with him," Ike shrugs and rolls his eyes when Kyle stares back at him hopelessly. "I don't know, dude. He's your friend. There's a reason I don't get into this kind of shit with my friends."

"You don' t have friends, Ike," Kyle points out.

"And the wounds are re-opened," Ike deadpans. "Oh god, the pain, how will I ever live. You got any weed?"

The last is a serious question and it takes Kyle a few seconds to realize that Ike's actually expecting an answer. He just frowns and shakes his head—he doesn't care too much for smoking, especially since he's started running.

Fuck, he hasn't run for a few days. He misses running.

"Kenny's still selling, isn't he?" Ike asks and stands, effectively pulling Kyle out of his head as he pats around for his wallet . "If I'm gonna be in this fucking house I'm gonna need a little bit of help."

"You got papers and shit?" Kyle asks as Ike heads out.

"Got a pipe, fucker," Ike shoots back. "Coming with me?"

"Yeah," Kyle says and grabs his shoes from beside the couch. Their mom is sitting there, watching an old episode of Extreme Couponing and looking completely zoned out. Kyle feels his stomach clench, even though that's stupid and he in no way should still be feeling like this after a week. He moves to sit beside her as he puts on his sneakers, and smiles when she looks over at him and slides an arm around his shoulders.

"Where are you boys off to?" she asks. She's always liked that her boys get along so well, but Kyle's always been a staunch believer in what she's always told them—they're brothers, they always will be, and they're all the other will have when she and their dad were dead and gone.

Fuck… Kyle's never actually been seriously worried about that until now.

"We're going to the market," Ike supplies. "Do you need anything, ma?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she gives them a smile. "You boys have fun."

Kyle hugs her and stands; Ike hugs her too, and kisses her on the cheek (the brown-nosing little dickhead) before they walk out to the car. They spend the ride over to Kenny's arguing over stupid shit, like which radio station they're going to listen to, or what's going to happen on the Christmas episode of Doctor Who (which Kyle only grudgingly watches because Ike is so into it, in spite of the fact that he's not that into sci-fi), and by the time they get to Kenny's, Kyle is feeling a whole lot better. His brother does that to him though, and he's not sure how he'd cope if he had a brother like Kevin or a sister like Shelly.

He likes that his brother's actually his best friend, stupid as that must seem.

They push the buzzer on the front of the building and wait for a moment.

"He home?" Ike asks.

"Maybe," Kyle shrugs. "Could be fucking Butters, though."

"Oh, good point," Ike nods a few seconds before the speaker on the dingy metal box starts going static. Kyle can vaguely make out Kenny's voice asking who the fuck it is. Ike answers, saying some nonsense that makes Kyle think that Kenny's got code phrases in the works for people who want to buy from him. He buzzes them in and they race up the stairs without any actual reason behind it. Kenny answers the door, looking a little like he's just woken up, and smiles when he sees Ike.

"Hey, guys," he says and pulls Ike into a hug. Kyle and Ike then cross the threshold into the apartment as Kenny shuts the door softly behind them. "You're in luck—this is the last of my good shit."

"Oh, cool," Ike nods. "When're you stocking up again?"

"Uh, not," Kenny shakes his head and goes to rummage around in the kitchen cabinets. He pulls a paper bag off of the top shelf and walks back over to them. He looks over to where Butters is asleep on their bed and gives a terse little smile. "Makes him too nervous. Plus, we're both making enough now to keep up with this place, so we don't really need the extra income."

Ike shrugs and pulls out his wallet, but Kyle can't stop looking at Butters. He's not just napping—he's completely zonked out. His face is squished against his pillow, his eyes are flitting quickly behind his eyelids, he's barely breathing…

"Dude, is he okay?" Kyle asks. Kenny looks back at Butters, almost like he's expecting that something's gone wrong in the thirty seconds he hasn't been looking at him, and frowns a little.

"He's fine," he shrugs then and looks at Ike. "It's the usual," he says and pulls a little ziplock full of a few buds out of the bag in his hand.

"He was acting a little weird the other night," Kyle presses.

"He was not," Kenny says a little too insistently for Kyle. He must sense this, because when he tucks the money from Ike into his pocket, he rolls his eyes and moves to throw his empty paper bag away. "What about you and Stan? Don't think I don't know what you two were doing. Nice fucking whisker burn, asshole."

"Oh, would you look at that," Ike says, tone completely flat as he pulls his silent phone out of his pocket. "Wouldn't you know it, it's the Pentagon calling for me _again_. Excuse me while I take this outside."

Kyle and Kenny both watch as Ike ducks out of the apartment and turn to glare at the other simultaneously once the door clicks shut. Kyle doesn't like getting into it with Kenny, to be quite honest—not only is it shitty to fight with one of your closest friends, Kenny also seems to have the uncanny ability to spot a weakness and attack. It's a self-preservation thing, Kyle knows, and it's a hell of a lot more effective than just deflection. People expect deflection; no one ever expects to have their faults and insecurities laid out bare before them.

"What's wrong, Kyle?" Kenny asks, face sliding into a grin. "Stan got your cock?"

"Shut the fuck up, Kenny," Kyle rolls his eyes. "Butters was acting fucking weird, now you're acting all weird… you can tell me what's going on."

"Dude, nothing's going on," Kenny insists, and it's at that point that Kyle has to start marshalling evidence that suggests otherwise.

"That why he was picking up medication from the pharmacy on Monday morning?" he asks, and he can see Kenny go stiff, like he's been caught. It's hard to catch Kenny off guard, and Kyle actually enjoys that he can get Kenny to react like this, even if it's only for about half a second before he regains composure.

"We ran out of the good allergy medicine," he shrugs. It's the worst-quality lie he's ever spouted out and Kyle has no choice but to laugh.

"Dude, just tell me," he shakes his head. "You're not gonna win, so you may as well just—"

"Fuck you, Kyle!" Kenny snaps, and Kyle actually draws back. Kenny doesn't just shout like that; it's kind of weird to see him so obviously bothered by something Kyle's said. Cartman, sure, but Kyle?

"Dude, what'd I—"

"No, just shut the fuck up," Kenny continues, no longer shouting but instead speaking in a very careful, quiet voice. Kyle's not sure if it's rage voice or if he's just trying not to wake Butters. "I'm only going to tell you this once, okay? Back the fucking fuck off. Got it?"

Kyle, as is in his nature, doesn't give two shits and instead persists.

"Shit, he's really that sick?"

"Even if he is, Kyle?" Kenny snaps, eyebrows so high up that they're actually turning the rest of his forehead sheet white. "Even if he fucking is, it's a. none of my business to tell you, and b. none of your goddamn business to ask. If he's got something going on, it's _his_ thing and _his_ decision to tell you. Prying like this is fucking juvenile."

"Jesus Christ," Kyle hears from over on the bed. He looks over and sees Butters slide out of bed, and then looks back to Kenny to see that he's watching Butters with bated breath, like if they make a wrong move they'll be in a heap of trouble.

"Hey," Kenny says softly, with a smile. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Butters replies through a yawn as he shuffles mindlessly over to Kenny and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Kyle feels like maybe he should look away when Butters wraps his arms around Kenny's middle and bows his head to shield his eyes in the crook of Kenny's neck. "What's all the hubbub?"

"Nothing," Kenny mumbles into Butters' hair. "You sure you feel all right?"

"Yeah, don't worry," Butters hums and kisses Kenny just under his jaw. Okay, Kyle's starting to get why Stan's so uncomfortable when they're affectionate-real affection is really uncomfortable to watch. Butters looks over at Kyle before he can excuse himself though and rests his head back on Kenny. "What's everyone so up in arms about?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," Kyle supplies before Kenny can say "He's being a nosy little shit."

"Aw, that's awful nice of you," Butters grins and continues through a yawn. "I can get a little crazy when I start gettin' manic. Hope I didn't scare you too bad."

"Manic?" Kyle asks, not giving his brain too much time to register anything ahead of him actually speaking.

"Well, yeah," Butters frowns, like he's expected Kyle to have pieced it together by now. "I-I'm bipolar."

"Oh," Kyle says through a few blinks. "That's… shit. Sorry."

"Smooth," Kenny remarks and holds Butters close. It's kind of sweet, actually… or would be if Kyle was inclined to believe that things could be sweet to begin with.

"Aw, 's'not your fault," Butters says and lets his eyes slip shut, like he's about to fall asleep again, this time on Kenny. "As a matter of fact, if it weren't for the way you and he helped Stan when we were in school, I-I reckon no one woulda noticed I was in bad shape at all."

"Imagine," Kenny nods. "Finding out South Park's been burned to the ground by _him_."

"Hey," Butters pouts a little and pokes Kenny in the side. "It was a twelve-point plan on how to annex Iceland and it was gonna work."

"I know, baby," Kenny mutters into Butters' hair, and Kyle finally turns his gaze downward. He feels like this is something he shouldn't be watching, like they've forgotten he's even there. It's loving. Kyle knows Kenny's capable of being loving, but it's still strange to see him like this.

Part of Kyle wants to rationalize it, to tell Kenny he's just used to living with crazy and that it's probably not healthy for him to be in a relationship with someone who's actually mentally ill; the other part of Kyle, the more sentimental part that's somehow managed to survive through two decades of cynicism and staunch practicality thinks that Kenny may have just genuinely fallen in love, and that he doesn't care about Butters' crazy.

But then again Kenny's the kind of guy who gets off on playing hero, and it wouldn't surprise Kyle if that's exactly what this was. Kyle's never quite seen the point of saving the day and all that shit, but then again he doesn't tend to attract the type of people who need saving.

Except Stan.

Only Stan doesn't need saving; Stan just needs someone to give him a good kick in the ass every once in a while. He's not like Butters—he's not crazy.

At least, not anymore.

"I… I should go find Ike," Kyle's brows pinch together. "He's probably stoned off his ass by now."

"Good," Kenny says and pulls Butters into a full-on tongue-y looking kiss, "'cause we're gonna fuck the shit out of each other right about now."

"Jesus, Kenny," Butters laughs and gives him a half-hearted little push. Kyle takes Kenny's full-on devouring of Butters' mouth as his final cue to duck out. He walks back down to the car, where, as expected, Ike is ducked in the back seat and sucking on the end of an intricately detailed glass pipe. Kyle knocks on the glass and laughs when Ike jumps. Ike just flips him off and asks him to drive back home.

The rest of the day passes without consequence, and mostly consists of Kyle and Ike watching TV in the basement and eating gastronomic amounts of food that will probably send Kyle to the emergency room if he isn't careful. They go through the motions at dinner, Kyle listening to the stories that their parents force Ike to tell about being away at school and his classes and everything, and Ike making faces at him every time he says something that could be even vaguley construed as gay.

Kyle doesn't realize how tired he is until he's flopped down on his bed and remembers that today started with waking up in Stan's bed, and that seems like forever ago. He also finds that he kind of misses the smell of Stan on his sheets, and vaguely entertains the idea of inviting him over just so he can be buried once more in that familiar scent.

Then, like the universe is working in his favor for once, his phone starts ringing and he doesn't even have to look at the screen to know it's Stan.

"What's up?" he answers.

"Hey, Shelly's finally done doing her shit," Stan says. "Come over?"

"Just fell into bed," Kyle replies, a little muffled by the mattress. "Not moving. Hang out tomorrow?"

"Yeah, dude," Kyle can hear Stan pretending that he's not disappointed. Kyle actually hates that tone of voice—not because he hates that he's disappointed someone, but because he hates when Stan sounds whiny and desperate.

"Sorry," Kyle gives a half-hearted apology. "I will if you want—"

"No, it's cool," Stan yawns. "Skype, though?"

"Yeah, sure," Kyle yawns in response. "Be on in a sec."

"Tits."

"Fucking douche," Kyle snorts and hangs up. He grabs his laptop off of his desk and settles back onto his bed while the computer turns on. It's not another minute after he logs onto Skype when Stan's picture, one of him and Trapper from a few years ago, pops up on the screen and Kyle answers. Stan's sitting on his own bed, already in sweats and that shirt Kyle sent him from school, and looking entirely ready for sleep. Kyle can see Hawkeye's big blocky head resting on Stan's knee and smiles. He hates to admit it, but fuck it.

Stan's kind of cute.

"Hey, what's up?" Kyle asks and balances his laptop on his knees.

"Nothing," Stan shrugs. "How's Ike?"

"Good," Kyle nods. "How's Shelly?"

"Fucking bitch," Stan snorts and starts picking at her fingernails. "She's thinking_ baby blue_ and _light brown_ for the color scheme. Like I give two fucks. So glad I had to listen to _that_ all goddamned day."

"You, uh," Kyle begins as Stan abandons the picking and instead starts full-on gnawing on his pointer finger. "You okay there, champ?" Stan just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Yeah," he says. "Just fucking wound up as hell."

"How much have you had to drink?" Kyle asks. Stan flips him off, but doesn't answer the question.

"I don't mean wound up like that," he supplies instead, and it takes Kyle a full minute to realize that,

"Oh, my God, this was a fucking booty call."

"It was not!" Stan exclaims. "I was seeing if you wanted to come over and play Modern Warfare."

"And to touch your dick."

"Well," Stan shrugs, moving to scratch Hawkeye behind his ears. "If that's where it started heading, like… I wouldn't have said no."

Kyle gives a laugh and leans back against the wall.

"Come on, dude," he says, voice low in his throat as Stan looks at him and cocks his head. "You don't think this is weird?"

"Of course it's fucking weird," Stan rolls his eyes, for once like he's the one with sense and _Kyle's_ the one being stupid. "'s'fun, though."

And yeah, okay, Kyle has to concede that point.

"But seriously," he continues and runs his fingers through his hair. "Like, I really don't want this to, like… change us? Or whatever?"

Well, this turned into a serious conversation pretty fast. Stan seems to have picked up on this too, looking at Kyle like he kind of doesn't know how to proceed. He brings his fingers back to his mouth, like he's going to start biting again only to remember a moment that they'll taste like dog and puts them back in Hawkeye's fur.

"Dude, I thought that was, like, a given," he cocks his brow now. "Like, we're still _super best friends_ or whatever, right? I don't think that _can _change."

"Okay, fair enough," Kyle laughs, because Super Best Friends is actually the stupidest name ever and he sort of likes that Stan still refers to them as such every so often. "Just, like… don't expect full on romance or any of that dumb shit, okay? Any romance, actually."

"Dude, ew," Stan sticks out his tongue. "If you ever get me flowers or buy me dinner or anything, I'll fucking beat you like the red-headed stepchild you are."

"Fuck you!" Kyle yelps, and yeah, the way Stan's so completely incapacitated by his own laughter is nothing short of endearing. "If you ever think of calling me 'sweetheart' or 'honey' or 'baby' or whatever –"

"Dude, no fucking way," Stan gasps through his laughter. "Come on, 'Kyle and Stan'. That's you and me always. Promise."

"Ugh, " Kyle grins and rolls his eyes. "So gay."

"Oh yeah," Stan nods. "Wouldn't want to be too gay after sticking our hands down each others' pants."

"Fuck off, you're the one who's so _wound up_ you need me to come jerk you off," Kyle shoots back. It doesn't sound like a tempting proposition. At all.

"Whatever, like I wouldn't reciprocate," Stan shakes his head. "Fuck, we've been friends for twenty years and you don't even think I'd help you out after you jerked me off. I'm hurt."

And now, of course, there's all these images flooding Kyle's head, most of them of Stan all writhing and short of breath at the mercy of Kyle's hand, and it's starting to make sleep sound like a pretty fucking stupid idea.

Especially when Kyle remembers that sound Stan made when he came, throaty and desperate and _fuck_.

Kyle looks at him for a few moments before checking the time and taking a peek at the weather outside.

"I'll be there in five," he says.

"Thank you," Stan beams, like this was all part of his plan and that Kyle had played right into it. And fine, it was basic manipulation 101—make someone want what you want and go from there. Great. He got Kyle good this time.

And when Kyle's not as determined to get his hand back on Stan as he is right now, he may one day find it in himself to retaliate.

Maybe.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to everyone who's been reading andor leaving feedback. I really do appreciate every last thing you guys tell me and like to know you're enjoying the story. **

**Because I am. It was a long week school-wise and I was happy to have this to take the edge off a little bit. **

**Have a nice President's Day weekend!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Christmastime happens to be Stan's least favorite time of year, to be perfectly honest. Most days he can't handle the cheer, and the blatant consumerism in the face of shit like starving kids in Africa really tends to get on his nerves. Mostly, though, it was one of the only things he couldn't share with Kyle when he was a kid, and after a while that was enough to really bum him out.

Now, of course, it doesn't really matter what the fuck is going on since Stan and Kyle are both pretty much out of the organized religion game, but the time of year is still enough to grate on Stan's nerves.

Then again, there's just this intense discomfort that comes with the holidays. What once in childhood meant a glut of gifts and a veritable feast of turkey and ham now boiled down to only two things: a lot of happiness and a metric fuck-ton of people.

He fucking hates both of those things.

Still, here he is, dragging his feet, wading through what has to be _every_ human being in Colorado, in the mall, on Christmas Eve, while Shelly bounces excitedly from store to store. Stan doesn't know who she's buying gifts for—it's not like she has any friends.

He finally catches up with her at the perfume counter in one of the various department stores (through which they've already trudged) and watches for a moment while she practically salivates over the crystal bottles and the delicate, fragrant liquids they contain. Stan doesn't often get to see Shelly out of the context of their family, because they're not like Kyle and Ike, or even Kenny and Karen—Stan and Shelly are not friends, and, yeah, it's a sucky thing to think, but they butt heads on everything and lack a general air of amiability toward each other so, yeah. Stan's pretty much resigned to the fact that he's never going to have that kind of relationship with her, and he's fine with it.

Fucking with her is way too fun to give up anyway.

"Y'know," he begins, "Cartman's always struck me as a 'Radiance' type of guy, but… now that you're looking at it, I'd say go for 'Curious'. It's way more him."

"Fuck you, it's not for him," Shelly seethes and stands upright.

"Bitch," Stan mutters, and falls back on a loud, obnoxious "don't hit me!" when she shoves him in retaliation.

"Don't call me a bitch, shithead," she bites back. "I was going to ask if you knew what kind of perfume mom uses these days."

"Why the fuck would I know that?" Stan asks, genuinely confused. He's a guy—even when he dated girls he didn't know what the hell _fragrances_ they wore. Wendy always smelled very crisp and clean, and he once went out with a girl who smelled like cookies.

"Seems like something the favorite kid would know," Shelly just shrugs and looks back at the bottles. Stan blinks for a few moments, hands in his pockets and actually… is he actually feeling _bad _for his sister? The bitch who's been tormenting him since before he can remember? The girl who grew up to marry fucking _Cartman,_ of all the homicidal douchebags on the planet? That's who was causing this pang of upset in his chest?

God fucking _damn it_.

"They don't have favorites, Shelly," Stan finds himself saying very bluntly as Shelly moves down the counter, looking at every single bottle like it's got its own story to tell. "And if they did, you know it'd be you. I mean, you're a college graduate, you've got a job, a car, you're getting _married_—"

"Please," she rolls her eyes. "Mom doesn't want me to get married."

"Well…" Stan frowns, "maybe not to Cartman, but… y'know, some day? To someone who's not as much of a—"

Shelly cuts him off with a glare and Stan deflates. It doesn't take him long after that to realize that, holy shit, Shelly may actually _love _Cartman. Like, he figured they loved each other in the way that most people do, or think they do, when they decide to get married, but… shit.

"Dude, do you actually, like… love him-love him?" he asks, and he knows it's a stupid question the second it leaves his mouth.

She renews her glare and actually folds her arms over her chest before she asks, "Are you retarded? Of course I fucking love him, dipshit."

"No, it's just…" Stan shrugs and continues to walk alongside her. "He's not your usual type."

"And what the fuck's my usual type?" she snaps, looking about ready for a fight, and Stan has to throw up his hands in defeat before anything even starts.

"Nice guys!" Stan interjects. "Like… the spineless, bend-to-your-will types. They brought out, y'know… the nice in you. Or whatever."

"Are you saying I'm not nice?" Shelly asks lightly, like she's daring him to answer in the affirmative. Stan just rolls his eyes and raises an eyebrow.

"Shelly, you know you're not fucking nice," he says frankly. Shelly just huffs a little and keeps walking along, and for a minute he thinks he may have hurt her feelings. Then she turns around and yells at him to 'hurry the fuck up, turd' and he disregards it entirely.

"Where are you going?" he asks as he runs to catch up with her.

"Men's apparel," she says. "I was gonna get something for dad."

"Oh fuck," Stan rolls his eyes. "Why waste your money?"

"Because he's our dad," Shelly replies, eyebrows knitted high on her forehead in genuine confusion. Right. She wasn't around when the actual divorce happened. She was tucked away at school that first Christmas, when it all began to snowball. Stan can't even remember what Randy did to start it all—he'd blocked it out, to be honest, and had no intention of retrieving it. All he remembers is that his mom had gotten so livid that she'd actually told him to leave the house.

That was how he'd ended up at Kyle's on Christmas afternoon, both of them wrapped in blankets, sipping at giant mugs of hot cocoa and watching A Christmas Story (because Kyle had never seen it and Stan deemed that unacceptable in the most horrendous of ways).

Then Stan remembers telling Kyle he was going to start crying, because it had been hanging over his head all day, and feeling more than his fair share of relief when Kyle said that it was okay. Just like that, Stan had started to cry, and Kyle… had been way cool with it. He'd even put an arm around Stan and kept it there 'til he'd stopped crying. It hadn't been a hug or a cuddle or anything like that, like Wendy would have done, but had been an effort, so Stan had to give him that.

Maybe he'd go see Kyle later. He'd actually give anything to be with Kyle right now. Emotionally retarded as he was, he'd at the very least try to get Stan to smile.

He hates when Stan is sad, as much as Stan hates when he's upset. Kyle's just not upset enough for Stan to be inconvenienced, and like the scumbag he is, Stan always has to be sad and be a nuisance to everyone.

"You can get him whatever the fuck you want," Stan decides, shoving his hands in his pockets and cracking his neck. "I'm going over to the bookstore."

"I'm putting your name on it anyway," Shelly scowls.

"Oh, wait," Stan says, patting around his jacket and pants pockets. "Nope, I'm sorry ma'am, I simply out of fucks to give. Here, take this instead," he finishes with a flourish of his middle finger.

"That's mature," Shelly nods as Stan starts walking away, backwards. "Way to be the bigger man, fuckwad."

"Talk to someone who gives a shit, Shel," Stan says and turns. It would've been a wonderfully graceful move, worthy of every suave bad boy actor with an attitude, if he hadn't turned around right into one of those stupidly tall makeover chairs and caused an all-too loud commotion as he and the stool fell to the floor.

"Why don't you put a little more Bailey's in your coffee tomorrow morning?" Shelly shoots as Stan picks himself up and keeps walking. "That really oughta even you right out." Stan flips her the bird one more time before rounding the corner and attempting to find his way out of the brightly lit and densely populated labyrinth of middle aged women and overpriced handbags.

Stan's not really the bookstore type, but it's the only place that ever seems to have sane people in this mall. He's not too big on reading, unless it's, like, sports biographies or something, but Wendy always insisted those didn't really count as _reading_-reading. Then again, that was the girl who considered shit like _Anna Karenina_ as 'light summer reading'.

Movies. Stan likes movies, and dismal as the selection generally is at the bookstore, it's better than contemplating the benefits of silk to rayon ties with Shelly. Plus, sometimes they have weirdly good selections.

He knows Monty Python isn't exactly hard to find, but he still gets excited as shit when he sees Life of Brian sitting on a shelf, begging to be bought and taken home. It's also Kyle's favorite Python flick and he's always whining about how he doesn't own it.

Yeah, Stan hates Christmas, and sure, Kyle doesn't celebrate it anyway, but… fuck, he never sees this movie anywhere (or, maybe he's just never looking for it) and not getting it just feels kind of stupid. He takes it to the register and buys it, along with a nice journal for his mom, an interior design book he saw Shelly eyeing on amazon the day before, and, grudgingly, one of those stupid, two-dollar joke books for his dad, just so he doesn't look like a total wad. He'll just send it out to California with whatever Shelly's getting him and that'll be that.

He texts Shelly when he's done to tell her that he'll be chilling in the little sports bar in the food court, with all the disgruntled boyfriends, tired dads, and other human beings who need to take the edge off of spending Christmas Eve in the _mall_. She texts back not to get too plastered, since they're supposed to be having a nice dinner with their mom and, goddamn it, _Cartman_, tonight.

The thought of the impending evening alone is enough for Stan to order a jack and coke and never want to look back. He checks his watch—1:09 pm. This is probably borderline not okay, as far as acceptable drinking times go, but it's Christmas Eve for fuck's sake, and none of the other assholes in here know what he's going to have to go through tonight so fuck them.

There's not nearly enough whiskey where there should be in this drink, he can't help but think as he foregoes the straw and goes right to taking a long sip right out of the glass. It's probably a good thing, he can't help but think, since Shelly may murder him if he gets too belligerent too early in the day, but he also just needs to fucking breathe for a minute. He knows that liquor doesn't solve problems and shit (as was drilled into him when everyone was trying to make sure he wasn't going to kill himself), but knowing is different than believing. Right now he's not so sure this isn't the answer. Alcohol makes him feel warm and content, lets him forget that his life is _his life_, and makes him braver in the face of the shitstorm that awaits him outside of this moment, outside of this glass.

"Mr. Marsh?"

Stan jumps and almost throws his glass back behind the bar, because that's definitely the voice of one of the kids from school, and this is the last fucking thing a kid should see a teacher doing. He turns around and sees Jack and his friend Eli looking at him expectantly. Fuck, he must look like _shit_. Still, he brings a hand up to flatten out his hair and gives them a smile that attempts to convey innocence but only succeeds in letting them know he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"What's, uh," he clears his throat. "What's up, guys?"

"We just ate our weight in potato skins," Jack gives him a genial smile.

"I had to get a gift for my girlfriend and I told him I'd buy him food if he came with me," Eli shrugs as he pulls out his phone to check a text, probably. Stan wants to grab the phone and throw it across the room, because thirteen year olds shouldn't even—

Wait.

Girlfriend.

Stan looks at Jack and sees that his smile is now less good natured and more forced. Ugh, Stan knows the feeling.

"I've gotta go call Jennifer," Eli nudges Jack and gives him a grin. Jack grins back at him, and even goes in for a congratulatory bump when Eli holds out his fist. The moment he's out of earshot, Jack deflates and hangs his head.

"Dude," Stan shakes his head as he watches Eli walk away. "That was fucking weak. I'm sorry dude."

"Mr. Marsh?" Jack snaps his head up, confused. Ugh, Stan forgets he's an authority figure sometimes. He just rolls his eyes, sets some money down on the bar, and gets up so they can go sit at a table.

"You can call me Stan," he says as he scoots into a booth, opposite Jack. "We're not in school. And that, what happened just now? That was fucked up."

"Ugh, fucking right!" Jack whines and smacks his head on the table. "They got together on the last day before break and now they won't stop talking to each other."

Stan sits there and lets Jack talk for a while; he even buys him a root beer float because he feels kind of awful for him. The poor kid is so lovesick that Stan wants to start scouting out nice little gay boys for him, just because. He doesn't want this kid to go through the heartbreak he's undoubtedly facing, just wants him to be happy, because he's a good kid and he fucking deserves it.

By the time Shelly comes to collect him, he's explaining to Jack the intricacies of football so his dad will get off of his back and stave off his suspicions for a while. They stand, and Jack thanks him for talking to him and, rather unexpectedly, gives him a hug.

"You're really cool, Stan," he says and, with a last smile, runs off to find Eli. Shelly just looks at Stan and raises an eyebrow, but Stan tells her to fuck off and ignore it.

"What'd you get dad?" he asks as they walk back out to the car.

"A tie," she shrugs. Stan nods and pulls out his phone so he can tell Kyle he's coming over after he drops off Shelly and wraps some gifts. Kyle texts back with a simple "_word_" and it makes Stan smile. Shelly seems to catch this out of the corner of her eye, but doesn't say anything until they're in the car and on the road.

Because now he can't run away.

"You could tell me if you and Kyle are gay, you know," she says.

"Dude, what the fuck!" Stan yelps and pulls up on his jacket collar. He's never felt a greater desire to hide from the entire world than he's feeling now. Apart from an occasional jibe, Stan and Shelly don't talk about shit like the people they date, who they're fucking, what have you. It's not something Stan wants to know about his sister and it's not something she wants to know about him.

"Oh, come on, Stan," she rolls her eyes. "If you're gonna try to hide it, you shouldn't be so obvious about it."

"Gee, fucking thanks," Stan shoots back and turns toward the window. "There's nothing going on, fuck."

"You don't have to lie to me, asshole," Shelly snips out. "I won't actually tell Eric if you don't want me to."

"Fuck the fuck off, Shel," Stan snaps, and that's the end of it. He knows she'll give him a look when he leaves for Kyle's, and knows she'll give him an unending amount of shit when he comes home, probably all dopey looking and still a little red in the face (even though all they do is jerk each other off), but he doesn't have it in himself to care right now. All he wants to do is crawl into Kyle's bed and watch Life of Brian with him.

And maybe get his dick a little attention. He really likes Kyle's hands on him, likes that Kyle likes touching him too, and actually likes that he gets to touch him in return. He didn't think he'd like touching a guy so much but… hey. There it is. Like Kenny always says: guys and girls, neither one's better than the other; they're different, and that's the thrill of it all.

And thinking about the way Kyle bites his lip when Stan's hand first grazes against him isn't exactly doing him any favors, so he reminds himself that his sister is marrying the fat tub of lard he once pretended was his friend, and any semblance of arousal he may have been feeling dies.

When they get back to the house, Stan practically flies upstairs and into his room so he can wrap his presents and get the fuck over to Kyle's as soon as possible. Then he remembers that he needs wrapping paper and tape and shit like that, so he sheds his jacket, ready to get down to business, and dashes back downstairs to where his mom is knitting on the couch and watching White Christmas.

"Oh, hey honey," she hums and points at the TV. "Sit and watch with me."

"As much as I'd like to," he says with a roll of his eyes, "I was actually wrapping presents and wondering where you keep the wrapping stuff."

"It's in the hall closet upstairs, hon," she says and Stan gives her a kiss on the cheek before bouncing back up the stairs. He's excited, but getting to see Kyle always makes him excited, so that's nothing new. He gets back in his room and puts in his headphones.

Gift wrapping requires proper musical accompaniment, after all.

He settles on a little Regina Spektor and goes to work. He's not particularly adept at shit like this, but he doesn't actually understand the novelty in making something look nice when you're only going to destroy it later. It's one of the main reasons he doesn't make his bed, and anyone who doesn't like it can fuck right off. He wraps his mom's gift and Shelly's, and decides to leave his dad's bare, just because he doesn't care enough to even bother. He also leaves Kyle's unwrapped, but also scratches off the price tag just because.

It's tacky.

He's jolted out of his thoughts by a rough knock on his door, a knock he hasn't heard in person for years. It's one of those sounds that sends a chill up his spine and a rush of adrenaline through his limbs.

"Stan?"

Randy. Jesus fucking Christ, Randy is on the other side of that door, knocking away and calling to him, "Stan, it's dad, open up."

Shakily, he removes his headphones from his ears and rolls to his feet. He inches toward the door, hoping against hope that it's all some sick trick in his mind, that he's just hearing things. He twists the doorknob and opens it just a crack, only wide enough to peek out, and sure enough there's Randy smiling back at him. He stays in his place for only a second before he pushes his way into Stan's room and pulls him into a hug.

"Uh," Stan furrows his brow. "H-hi, dad," he says lamely and gives him a halfhearted hug in return.

"Wow, would you look at you," Randy gives a laugh and holds Stan out at arm's length. "Boy, you're really filling out, aren't you? I tell ya, the pictures don't do you justice."

There's a reason Stan doesn't use his facebook page, and it's because he made the mistake of accepting his dad as a friend. Now there's nothing he can do on that fucking site without his dad seeing it and commenting on it a thousand times over. The pictures to which he's referring don't 'do him justice' because they were taken over a year ago.

"Yeah," he just replies, because if he tries to say anything else, "fuck off" will come out and that will absolutely destroy Randy like no other. Randy just smiles at this and gives him a light smack in the stomach.

"Careful about those beers, though, huh?" he gives a good natured wink. "I see that gut coming in already. Girls, Stan… they'll tolerate it, but you don't want 'em knowing what they're in for quite yet."

"Oh god," Stan mutters and pushes past Randy, trying very hard not to say anything.

There's wine in the kitchen. He knows his mom keeps wine in the kitchen.

"Say, Stan," Randy says, practically on his heels as Stan walks downstairs. "Hey Stan, slow down for just a second. How about a nice 'how are you, nice to see you'?"

"How about a nice, 'does mom know you're here?'" Stan poses instead, noticing the absence of his mom in the living room as he rummages around one of the cupboards. Randy looks over to the couch, where Stan is staring, and folds his arms over his chest.

"She, ah," he begins. "She wasn't too happy to see me. I… Wow, I guess Shelly didn't tell you guys I was coming."

"Shelly knew?" Stan snaps as he grabs a bottle of, not wine, but vodka. It's something his mom must've bought for when she had her ladies' nights with Sheila and Mrs. Stotch, back when it was just after the divorce and she needed support.

Granted, Sheila had probably been a better choice on the support front than Linda Stotch, who was as kooky as a barrel full of monkeys back then as she is now.

"I told her to tell you and your mom," Randy shrugs. "She must've forgot."

"Fucking bitch," Stan laughs and untwists the cap on the bottle. He doesn't give Randy a chance to reply before he tips the bottle back and swallows a few mouthfuls without even batting an eye. That should be cause for concern, he knows, but goddamn it.

Just… goddamn it.

"Well," he says and puts the bottle down on the counter, already feeling the warmth of the alcohol invading his gut and spreading through his body. "I'm gonna bounce."

"Wh-what're you talking about?" Randy asks, eyes going all big.

"I'm just… I gotta go," Stan shrugs and shakes his head. He stumbles up the stairs and back into his room, where he pulls on his boots and slips into his jacket before going to knock on Shelly's door.

"Hey, Shel," he says, probably a little too loudly, and leans on the doorjamb. "Shel, where'd you put my keys?"

Shelly opens the door and raises an eyebrow, hand braced on one of her hips as she looks him up and down.

"You've been drinking," she says.

"I'm fucking fine," Stan groans and holds out his hand. "Give me my keys."

"No," Shelly responds and gives him a tight smile. "You can walk your ass to your lover's house," she beams and slams the door in his face. Stan blinks for a second before he knocks on her door and loudly declares "there's nothing going on!"

He looks toward the stairs and sighs. Going downstairs meant seeing Randy again, and no one needed that. He decides that going out his window is a much better idea, especially since he's kind of used to doing it anyway and at least there's fresh snow on the ground to break his fall this time around. He dangles out the window rather ungracefully for a few moments before he lets himself go.

Now he's cold and wet.

Admittedly, he didn't think this through.

He trudges the short way to Kyle's house, kicking at snow and whistling way too loudly as he does so. He's lacking enough in fucks to give to say 'Feliz Navidad!' in the loudest voice possible to every passerby, and almost falls flat on his face way too many times to count. By the time he gets to Kyle's, he's pretty sure he looks like a lunatic, but he can't be bothered to care because Kyle answers the door wearing one of Stan's flannel shirts over some super nerdy science t-shirt of his and it makes Stan smile bigger than he can ever remember.

"Hey there, handsome," he greets. Kyle must smell the alcohol on him, because he goes from a contented grin to taken aback in a split second.

"Jesus, dude," he gives a little laugh. "Merry fucking Christmas, I guess. Do you want some coffee or something?"

"Fuck it, you don't even want to know my day," Stan shakes his head and tries to fight back a yawn as he runs his hands through his hair. Kyle shrugs and lets him inside, herding him away from the living room and immediately up the stairs. Someone's watching TV, and Stan thinks he should probably say hi, but Kyle seems to be of a different mindset.

"What happened now?" Kyle just asks as they enter the solitude of Kyle's room. "Shelly make you take her measurements or something?"

"My dad's back, asshole," Stan groans and flops face-first onto Kyle's bed. That's enough to stun Kyle back into silence. Stan rolls over as Kyle comes to sit beside him, and lets out a little noise of appreciation in the back of his throat when Kyle squeezes at his thigh.

"Shit, dude," he says. "That's ass. I'm sorry."

"'s'not your fault," Stan sighs and rubs his hands over his face. He's starting to feel heavy headed and lazy, which means he hasn't had quite enough to drink yet. He doubts Kyle will let him anywhere near any alcohol under his watch.

"I know that," Kyle replies frankly. "Dude, why are you all wet?"

"Thinking about you," Stan shoots back, and then laughs, because he's fucking clever when he wants to be, goddamn it. He hears Kyle give an entirely less appreciative snort as he gets up from the bed and starts rooting around in his dresser for something. Stan sits up just in time to get hit in the face with a pair of pants, and he laughs harder.

"Here, before you catch a cold," Kyle says, and rolls his eyes when Stan looks at him and bounces his eyebrows a few times.

"Put 'em on for me?"

"Oh God, you are a fucking adult, Stan," Kyle's eyebrows fly up on his forehead as he crosses his arms over his chest. He looks every bit the stern parent, and Stan feels himself deflate. He didn't do anything wrong, did he? Fuck, he's just being stupid—Kyle likes being stupid with him, usually. Fuck it, he hates when Kyle thinks he's being stupid.

That usually means his stupidity has gone nuclear.

"Just fucking around," Stan mumbles. It turns into a yawn as he goes to unbutton his pants and pushes them off of his hips.

"Dude, your shoes," Kyle points out, and Stan laughs a little because _duh_. He goes to unlace his boots, not caring really that he must look like a Class A moron with his pants half off and struggling with his shoes, and Kyle watching him like he's a fucking three-year-old who insisted on getting undressed _by himself_ like a _big boy_.

By the time he actually succeeds in changing and shrugging off his jacket and everything, he's way more tired than he should be for whatever time it is.

Before dinnertime. That was a valid unit of measurement.

"I think you should chill up here while we eat, dude," Kyle says and helps Stan slide his jacket off of his shoulders.

"But you," Stan begins as he stretches out on the bed, hugging one of Kyle's pillows to his chest. "Will you text my mom and make sure she's okay?"

"Yeah, dude," Kyle nods, and Stan tries really hard not to let out an involuntary noise of abject joy when Kyle bends down to kiss him just on the corner of the mouth. "Just… sleep, okay? You'll feel better when you wake up."

Stan just grins up at him.

"You kissed me," he says.

"Ugh," Kyle rolls his eyes and grabs Stan's phone out of his pants. "And I'm never doing it again if that's how it's gonna be."

"No," Stan whines and buries his face in the pillow. "I like your man kisses."

"Oh, my god," Kyle chuckles as he texts out a message to Stan's mom. "You're such a fucking freak."

"I need them to live, Kyle," Stan soliloquizes as his eyes slip shut. "How can I go on without your sweet, tender man kisses? Don't do that to me!"

"Get some sleep," Kyle laughs outright now and ducks down one more time to peck Stan on the lips. It's way too brief, but Kyle's out of the room before Stan can pull him back in for more. So he just decides to roll over and let himself drift off, because this pillow smells like Kyle and his bed smells like Kyle and it's enough to remind Stan that he's okay, that he's safe, and that Kyle's just downstairs if he needs him.

That's way closer than Boston.

**oooooooooo**

Stan may not know what time he fell asleep, but he knows that waking up at eleven o'clock means he slept way too long. To be fair, he doesn't sleep very well on his own bed, and that's probably because his mattress is soft and… fuck it, he may as well admit it: his bed doesn't smell this cozy.

He wonders when words like 'cozy' wormed their way into his vocabulary and sits up. It's dark, save for the light coming from Kyle's computer and desk lamp; he's got a vague headache and his mouth is dry and sour, but other than that he feels fine. Kyle's at his desk, watching something that is out of Stan's line of vision, and looks intensely deep in thought.

He's also wearing his glasses, which is just… y'know, one of the most attractive things known to humankind.

He also sees that his phone is on the bed beside him, blinking angrily with an unchecked message. It's from his mom, a text from around four, reading "_Tell him I'm fine. Thanks for looking after him, sweetheart."_

Great, so everyone thinks he's an invalid now.

He rolls off of the bed and sits on the floor for a second, because balancing on his feet and being so high off the ground feels like a little too much right now, and rubs the tension out of his eyebrows with his thumbs.

"Oh good, you're awake," Kyle comments lightly without turning around.

"If you insist," Stan grunts and inches over to where Kyle sits. He appears to be taking notes on whatever it his he's watching, like he did back in high school. Stan kind of misses seeing Kyle in an academic setting, if only because Kyle would get so worked up over what he was learning that it would usually end in heated debates and Kyle getting angry.

In retrospect, Stan thinks Kyle may have even turned him on back then.

Stan just took all the pent up energy and spent it on girls instead.

Stan pokes his head under Kyle's arm and gets up on his knees to kiss him. Kyle indulges him for a moment before shoving his face away and making a little noise of disgust.

"Dude, that's fucking rancid," he says without looking away from his screen. Stan frowns a little before giving him a little nip on the jaw and turning to see what exactly it is that has so steadily captured his attention.

Porn.

Of course it's porn.

"What the fuck are you even doing?" Stan asks, now too under the spell of the video. It's two well-muscled guys: one in a hardhat and work boots, and he's currently getting his dick sucked in earnest by the other one, who's wearing pretty much the same thing. Stan's never really been one for gay porn (and granted, he's only ever tried watching it once or twice at the vehement insistence of Kenny), but this? With Kyle's arm now draped over his shoulder as they both watch, hypnotized, Stan can't help but get a little hard.

"Please tell me you're taking notes on how to give head," Stan says, still unable to look away. "Please tell me that's a thing."

"Dude, fuck off," Kyle responds, not sounding like he means it at all. "Why're you so into this? It's pretty mediocre as far as porn goes."

"You're the one who's fucking watching it, dickface," Stan scowls and pokes him in the side.

"Yeah, but I'm not _watching_-watching," Kyle amends and clicks out of the window as soon as the one guy bats the other guy's hat off his head so he can fist his hands in his hair. Stan makes a little noise of disappointment, ready to fly forward and look at all the gay porn the internet has to offer _right this second_ only… only Kyle's standing and offering Stan a hand up.

"What the fuck's this?" Stan asks.

"I saved you a plate of dinner downstairs," Kyle shrugs as Stan takes his hand. "Figured you'd be—"

Kyle doesn't have a chance to finish before Stan pulls him down on top of him. Even in the dim light of the desk lamp, Stan can see Kyle's scowl of discomfort and surprise.

"Were you trying to learn how to suck dick, Kyle?" Stan gives a teasing laugh and pecks a little kiss to Kyle's lips. "Because I think that's super cute."

"Fuck _off_, asshole," Kyle shoves him back, even though there's a little smile behind the words, and moves across the room to turn on the lights. "At least I'll know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Dude," Stan sucks in a hiss when the entire room brightens. "Dude, if fucking Kenny can manage it, I think I'm good."

"Kenny's a freak of nature," Kyle rolls his eyes and grabs a bottle of water off of his desk. "You thirsty?"

Stan gives a nod and takes the bottle from Kyle, chugging down half of it in one go and pausing to swish the last mouthful around in hopes that he'll be able to get rid of at least a little of the grossness. He pushes himself to his feet with an exaggerated groan and tries not to smile too broadly when Kyle grabs him by the wrist and tugs him close.

"So your dad's back, huh?" he mutters and moves to kiss Stan right on the lips, but Stan turns his face away and groans again.

"Fucking shit, Kyle," he snaps. "Are you kidding me, right now?"

"What?" Kyle asks.

"Maybe watch a few videos on dirty talk, 'cause I guarantee that's probably the more pressing issue," Stan bites back, but it's hard to be mad when Kyle's hand finds the back of his neck and starts to rub, softly and slowly.

"I'm trying to be sensitive, dick," Kyle says.

"That was you _trying_?" Stan laughs and backs away from him. "Sweet merciful fuck, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Dude, I don't fucking know," Kyle throws his hands up in defeat and sighs. "Forever alone for a fucking reason."

"I don't think my dick's ever gotten that soft that fast," Stan shakes his head and grabs himself through Kyle's sweats. The fact that they're Kyle's aside… yeah, Stan's pretty much down for the count on this one. "Jesus, it hurts."

"Oh, it does not," Kyle rolls his eyes and folds his arms. "You obviously want to talk about it—"

"Dude, not as bad as I wanna get my dick sucked," Stan practically shouts, remembering only a little too late that Ike's probably in the next room, and that their parents are most definitely sleeping down the hall. Kyle just raises his eyebrow, expression otherwise stoic for a few uncertain seconds before a slight smile slides into place on his lips.

"You want me to suck your dick?" he asks, and fucking fantastic—Kyle's going to hold this over his head for the rest of their lives. This was exactly why he jerked Kyle off first, because shit like this happens when he lets his guard down and wants things first. Stan just folds his arms and shifts his weight, not daring to break eye contact now.

"Fuck yeah," he gives a defiant little shrug and just like that Kyle pushes himself away from the desk and surges forward to crush his lips against Stan's. It doesn't do much for Stan's headache, but the rest of him doesn't seem to give two shits. He weaves his fingers through Kyle's short crop of fluffy curls and tugs. This gets Kyle to open his mouth in a surprised little groan and allows Stan to press his tongue inside. Catching Kyle off-guard isn't exactly easy, so Stan's all about the little victories on that front.

Even if it means taking a retaliation, which this time means being pushed back onto the bed and pinned down by the shoulders as Kyle's tongue invades his mouth. It's the kind of thing that Stan doesn't mind too much, because if all this came about just from pulling Kyle's hair? Stan kind of starts getting hard again at the thought of what else could evoke such responses from the man on top of him, who's moved from Stan's mouth to biting his way down his jaw and neck.

"Fuck, dude," Stan sighs, and whimpers a bit when Kyle slips his fingers up under Stan's shirt. He drags his fingertips lightly up Stan's sides, sending sparks of heat shooting through his limbs and sucking all the air from his lungs. It's also making his dick painfully hard, and Kyle's smiling into the crook of Stan's neck because he _knows_ what he's doing and what's happening and he's not touching him.

God, he's such an asshole sometimes.

"Want me to touch you?" Kyle hums, pushing a kiss to the underside of Stan's jaw as his fingers barely graze the outline of Stan's dick.

"Such an asshole," Stan shakes his head, and laughs when Kyle starts laughing. Even though anyone looking in on them would think they'd both just escaped from an insane asylum, Stan doesn't care; it's funny. His best friend is sliding off of the bed and settling in between his legs, getting ready to suck his dick. It's just plain fucking funny.

Kyle's laughing a little still, even as he runs his thumbs lightly along the waistband of Stan's pants. It dies out when he hooks his fingers under the elastic and pulls, though, and Stan lifts his hips to help with the removal (because he's nothing if not cooperative). Stan sits up, still smiling a little, when he feels Kyle's hand wrap around him and give a few lazy pumps. It's a little embarrassing, how hard Stan is right now—he only gets a little glimpse of the head, swollen deep red and shiny before Kyle ducks his head and runs the flat of his tongue through the slick of precome forming at the very tip of his cock.

If Stan thought he couldn't breathe before, he definitely can't now. He feels the last of his breath escape him in a shaky blow for freedom as he fists his hands in Kyle's comforter, his toes curling as Kyle teases him.

When Kyle takes his entire head into his mouth and sucks, Stan's pretty sure he sees God. He hasn't gotten head in a long time—the last girl he was with had been sloppy, drunken one night stand that had been more concerned with fucking than anything else, and before that Stan had been in kind of… well, kind of a dry spell.

Kyle bobs his head down a little further before he sucks back up, like he knows Stan's thoughts had somehow strayed from what he's doing, and hums a little when Stan tangles his fingers in his hair again. When he tugs this time, Kyle lets out a moan, and the vibration around him is way too much; Stan bucks up and accidentally sends Kyle into a coughing fit.

"'the fuck," Kyle rasps, sounding entirely less incensed as he undoubtedly thinks he should be. His hand is still working a slow but steady rhythm on Stan's dick, so it's a little difficult for Stan to feel too sorry at the moment. He tosses out a half-hearted apology anyway and just leans down to kiss Kyle's red, swollen lips.

"You're just so good at it," he huffs through a smile and whines when Kyle smashes their lips together again and gives him a warning squeeze. Stan's not too bothered. He can taste himself on Kyle's tongue, distinguishable only because it's so different from how Kyle normally tastes.

Because Stan's never once tasted his own come, just out of curiosity.

Ever.

Why would he do that.

Kyle just smirks against Stan's lips for a second before ducking back down and returning to his task in earnest. It doesn't take Stan very long after that—a few more minutes and he lets out a throaty groan.

"H-hey," he stammers and tugs on a curl of Kyle's hair. "Hey, dude, I'm gonna—_fuck._" He screws his eyes shut and feels his orgasm shoot through him not a second after Kyle's hands move to pin his hips to the bed. Fuckin' A, he just came in Kyle's mouth.

He opens his eyes to look at Kyle, to laugh in the ridiculousness of the statement, only to see Kyle frantically grabbing for the mug on his nightstand. He doesn't even have time to ask him what he's doing before Kyle spits Stan's come into what appears to be the remnants of a cup of coffee.

"Hey," Stan gives a shaky laugh, pretending to be offended as he lightly knees Kyle in the shoulder. It's not that he cares or anything, but right now he actually doesn't think he'd be able to be annoyed if he tried. Kyle just looks at him and shakes his head a little, coughing as he, in turn, pretends not to laugh.

"Wow, that was fucking weird," he says and moves to sit on the bed next to Stan.

"Not even, dude," Stan sniffs and scoots closer, so they're touching. "You're just a fucking pussy."

"I am not!" Kyle shoves him with his shoulder and laughs. "Have you ever had a mouthful of come? No. So don't even start. It was more than I expected and I _panicked_."

"Jesus," Stan laughs as he pulls his pants and underwear back up over his hips. "That's really how you get me to want to reciprocate."

"Oh, fuck you," Kyle rolls his eyes and shifts. If he looks down, Stan can see that he's sporting a pretty massive erection. "I wouldn't let you even if you wanted to."

Stan raises his eyebrows, a little too stunned to say anything at first, before he laughs and cocks his head.

"Dude," is all he feels he needs to say, because _dude._ Kyle just snorts and grabs himself through his jeans, which he's still inexplicably wearing at this time of night.

"You don't know what you're doing, dude," he shakes his head. "It's not as easy as it looks."

And something about that really grinds against Stan's sensibilities. What the hell? He knows Kyle can be a dick, because he's _Kyle_ for fuck's sake and that's just who he is, but they're venturing down the mansex road together and the least Stan thought Kyle would be was supportive.

It's really pissing him off, actually.

"Fuck you," he says and shoves Kyle on the shoulder again before he slides off the bed and shifts so he's on his knees. He nudges Kyle's legs apart and goes to work on undoing his fly. "Like sucking dick is hard," he mutters and gives a defiant look upward.

Kyle's smirking, one eyebrow perked up as he starts coming his fingers through Stan's hair, and Stan's face immediately falls.

"Oh, you're such a fucking dick," he shakes his head. Kyle breaks out into a full grin now, one of those stupid, goofy ones that make Stan feel all warm on the inside because it's a _real_ smile with genuine mirth behind it and _fuck_, dopey as it makes him look, Stan kind of fucking loves it.

He just shakes his head at Kyle and pulls his pants down, smiling just a bit when Kyle lifts his hips and sighs at his erection hitting the open air. He grabs Kyle in his hand and looks at him for a second—yeah, he's never done this before, but _he's a guy_, okay? He's got a dick of his own, he knows what feels good, he's not entirely lost.

And he doesn't fucking need to watch porn and take detailed notes about how to make this shit better, okay? He just needs to do it.

So he does. He holds Kyle steady and takes him into his mouth without much fuss.

Kyle's right—it's weird. It's nothing Stan can't handle, but it's just plain strange. Every single one of his senses is full up; he's completely enveloped in Kyle. His nose is full of that scent he's only ever smelled on his hand after a long night, sharp and masculine and _Kyle_, and he can taste it on his tongue and in the back of his throat.

Kyle's fingers are in his hair, fingernails dragging gently along his scalp as Stan works at bobbing his head a little. This isn't so bad, damn it. And there was Kyle, making it look like a chore _just_ so Stan would be challenged into reciprocating. Stan had half a mind to bring him right to the edge and then back off, to keep denying him until there was no force of will left in him, until he was begging Stan to come. Stan gets a little too amused by this thought and starts laughing, humming around Kyle's dick without quite realizing what he's doing.

He pulls back, gagging after Kyle bucks up into his mouth. Oh god. This is how this is going to happen—the first time he gives Kyle head, he throws up all over him. That's where this is going, isn't it? First he can't even talk to Wendy, now he can't even open his mouth back up for fear that he's going to _Exorcist_ vomit everywhere.

"Dude," Kyle breathes, running his fingers through Stan's hair. "Dude, sorry. Are you okay?"

Stan nods and takes a few deep breaths. He's always had a shitty gag reflex anyway—it makes for being a terrible gay guy and a successful bulimic, but that's about it. He looks up at Kyle and gives him a tentative smile, and Kyle smiles back. Stan almost loses his shit when Kyle runs a thumb over his bottom lip and comes down to nip at it.

"Your lips are so fucking fat, dude," Kyle pants. "'s'hot."

Ngh, fucking _God_ Kyle thinks he's hot. Or, that something about him is hot, anyway. Stan gives him his own ridiculously goofy smile before he surges up and kisses him again. Kyle wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders and licks inside his mouth, and Stan's honest to god whimpering because Kyle's so close to getting to _that point_. That point where he forgets he's an unfeeling bastard and gets affectionate for three and a half seconds. Stan pulls away and goes back to work, holding Kyle down with steadying hands as he bobs his head and sucks.

It takes a little bit, and a few hasty reminders that teeth are _not_ okay, but Kyle gets there eventually— he's all twitchy hipped and making these breathy noises and playing with Stan's hair and it's kind of making Stan lightheaded. Kyle doesn't say anything, just groans and tugs at the hair on the base of Stan's skull and that's _supposedly_ enough warning.

Man, at least Stan fucking said something, instead of just leaving Kyle with a mouthful of spunk and the world's strongest desire to cough it all back up. He doesn't, though. He swallows it back, figuring that, if anything, is the last fuck you he can give in this situation, and looks up. Kyle's all pink in the face and panting, like he's never seen anything like Stan before.

"Told you," Stan gives a little laugh as Kyle slides off the bed and cups Stan's face in his hands. "You're just a fucking pussy."

"Yeah, whatever," Kyle nods absently before he pulls Stan into another kiss. It's all full of tongue and way too sloppy, but Stan figures he just botched his first blowjob ever so… what's a messy jizzy kiss between two bros?

They sit there on their knees, lazily making out for a few minutes before Stan's stomach rumbles and drives them downstairs. Blessedly, no one's down there, so Stan's free to pull Kyle's hips back against his and kiss at his neck while he looks in the fridge. Kyle laughs and tells him he's being retarded, but that doesn't keep him from turning around and kissing him again. He reheats a bowl of beef stew for each of them, warning Stan that this is a batch made at the hand of Gerald rather than Sheila, but Stan's so hungry he could give a shit.

They end up on the couch, Stan's legs entwined with Kyle's underneath an old quilt Sheila's had since before Stan or Kyle can even remember. It's subtle, but Stan can totally feel Kyle's foot grazing his calf and it's making him feel all warm.

It's weird, feeling like this on his own.

Kyle lands on an old rerun of the West Wing and stays, which makes Stan kind of want to roll his eyes but he keeps his mouth shut. Kyle never watches anything for too long anyway, except maybe CSI or some shit. Stan rests his head against Kyle's shoulder, and grins to himself when Kyle's head rests on his. It's nice. Peaceful even.

"I haven't seen my dad since Shelly graduated," Stan says without realizing it

"Yeah?" Kyle responds, readjusting so his ear isn't quite as squished against his head. "_And how does that make you feel?"_

"You're a dick," Stan nudges him with his knee. "That's, like, three years, okay? And last time I saw him he tried to take me to a strip club, dude. A fucking _strip _club. Like, when I was twenty and trying to get sober? 'the fuck?"

"Dude, fuckin' Randy," Kyle snorts. "So he's here for Christmas. So the fuck what? You'll go back home tomorrow, do your song and dance, and be fucking done with it. Simple as that."

"Ugh, I know," Stan frowns and slides down so he's laying on Kyle's lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kyle asks, even though he starts stroking his hair and makes no move to push Stan off of him.

"Seeing if I can hear the ocean," Stan bites back sarcastically and sticks his tongue out. Kyle gives him a light smack on the cheek and sticks his tongue out right back.

"Sarcastic little shit," Kyle mutters. Stan whines and rolls over so he's nuzzling against Kyle's belly.

"I know I ask this every Christmas, but please adopt me," he sighs.

"Ew, no," Kyle gives a laugh. "Then this would be incest, and that's not cool."

"Then please instruct me on how to convert to Judaism," Stan insists.

"Come join us in atheism," Kyle snorts. "We can get tattoos and eat bacon and fuck anyone we want."

"I like it," Stan nods and readjusts so he's cuddling closer. He likes this, being this close to Kyle, likes that there's a human being on the planet who makes him feel this comfortable, this light, this… this _okay,_ y'know? Suddenly it's like nothing else in his life exists, like his dad's not here, like his sister's not getting married, like his life hasn't been thrown out of whack. It's weird, that this is actually the best thing going on in his life right now.

"Sorry I messed up your blowjob," he yawns.

"Eh, you'll get better," Kyle shrugs. "It's all about practice. I'm willing to sacrifice my body for the sake of science."

Stan falls asleep again, feeling lighter than he has in years.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys! <strong>Long chapter, but it was a short week so I had time. Hope you guys enjoyed it and all. Thanks so much for the feedback and the love-it brightens my day up always.

Hope you're all having a good weekend!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Stan rolls over, a big ball of anticipation and regret weighing heavily in his stomach as he watches catches his breath.

It's Christmas, he's half-naked in Kyle's bed, and he's just attempted to redeem himself after last night's horribly botched blowjob.

With the way Kyle's panting and fisting his hands in his hair, he'd say he's been successful. Stan can't help the self-satisfied smile that spreads across his face as he looks over at Kyle, and pecks a kiss to his cheek.

"Never had one lesson," he says, and Kyle gives him a shove.

"Whatever," Kyle mutters. "s'not my fault you're just more gay than me or something."

Stan barks out a laugh and leans over to bring him into another kiss. He can taste himself on the back of Kyle's tongue, and if he weren't already so fucking spent he'd be ready and raring to go again. Kyle pulls away, breathing still a little labored, before he rolls off the bed and starts getting dressed.

Kyle's got a problem being naked for too long that Stan's never really understood. Stan loves being naked, and he's got a lot more chub (okay, not a lot, but still) than Kyle, so... Kyle should therefore have no problem being naked.

Plus, he's got a nice dick that he should have no problem displaying for the fucking world to see.

...God, when did he start thinking that guys had nice dicks?

Stan watches Kyle tuck himself back into his and groans. He has to go back home—he knows he does—but if he goes back home, he won't be able to stay in this bed, cloaked in the musky scent of sex and shampoo and Kyle.

"Fuckin' A," he mutters into one of Kyle's big, fluffy pillows. "Please don't let me go back there."

Kyle just looks up at him and gives him a secret little half smile. "And what would you tell your mom if you missed Christmas, exactly?" he asks. Stan grunts and shuts his eyes, wishing he was settling in for a long day of lying half-naked in bed.

"I'd probably tell them the truth," he yawns. "That I spent the day fondling you and playing Xbox."

Kyle doesn't say anything, which is typical to say the least, just throws Stan's pants over his head and tells him to get dressed.

"You're such an asshole," Stan whines and wriggles back into his pants.

"Come on," Kyle says and lays back on the bed. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

"Such a gentleman," Stan replies, all nasally and funny-faced, and Kyle jabs him in the ribs. Stan beams and kisses him, and is just fucking elated that Kyle is kissing back. He's kind of retarded with this kind of thing, and even though Stan's obviously not great at it himself, he feels an obligation to make Kyle better at it.

They make out on the bed for a few minutes, Stan feeling the definite stirrings of affection deep in his chest that he knows Kyle wouldn't approve of. He remembers feeling like this with Wendy, this feeling of abject joy at the thought that there's a person on the planet who can actually stand him, who wants to kiss him, maybe even almost as much as he wants to kiss them.

"All right," Kyle rolls away, almost as quickly as he came to lay beside him, and lands on the floor. "Let's go."

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to interfere with your long hard day of eating Chinese food and watching movies," Stan sticks out his tongue, but gets up all the same. Kyle pinches one of his love handles in retaliation, which only makes Stan clutch at himself awkwardly and, goddamn it, _pout._

"Don't poke my fat," he whines.

"Fuck off," Kyle rolls his eyes. "I like it."

And Stan feels himself flush at that because… because Kyle likes something about him. It's totally stupid and asinine to think that, because Kyle's not the kind of guy who'd toss him some sympathy sex just for the fuck of it, so he _obviously_ likes the way Stan looks at least a little bit, but.

But weird.

"You like it?" Stan raises his eyebrows and, to his own surprise, Kyle looks like he's unaware he's said anything of the sort. He gets over it, though, and replaces that look of unintentional sincerity with an impish grin.

"Yeah, gives me something to hold onto," he replies and pulls Stan in by the hips. Stan snorts and fists his hands into Kyle's hair. He doesn't tug, just pulls Kyle into a quick kiss before they find their shoes and jackets and start out of the house.

Stan's feet feel heavy. He doesn't want to go back home—he doesn't want to deal with Shelly and his dad and Cartman. He feels bad for feeding his mom to the lions last night, but she's tough. Stan's not so much. He's weak on his own, and that's probably why he's been feeling so out of sorts lately. He misses being with someone who makes him better, who improves him. That was what was so great about being with Wendy; she made him want to be a better human being.

Kyle makes him feel like that, kind of, except where Wendy made him want to be a better person, Kyle makes him feel like he already is.

They're both kind of horrible humans, so it balances out… maybe.

"Hey," he starts, not really knowing where he's going with it. He just wants Kyle to look over at him, to reassure him that having their mouths on each other's dicks hasn't made this too weird (a futile hope, he knows), but really he doesn't have much to say. All he really wants is to spend his day with Kyle and it doesn't look like it's going to happen.

Some Christmas this is shaping up to be already, and it's not even eight in the morning.

"Dude, are you all right?" Kyle asks, eyebrows pinched together in an amused sort of worry.

"Fuck," Stan sighs before he can think about it. "I know this is, like, super gay—"

"Oh boy."

"But, like," Stan purses his lips. "Would you hang with me today? I can't fucking handle this shit show right now."

Kyle stops walking and sighs, putting his hands into his jacket and looking at Stan like he's insane for even asking that.

"Yeah," he begins, "I was gonna hang with Ike today."

"Right," Stan nods. "Yeah, I figured." Of fucking course—Kyle has a sibling he can actually stand, who he gets along with for more than three minutes at a time. But Stan, unfortunately for Ike, is feeling particularly like getting his way today, so he turns on the pout and looks back at Kyle, who shifts uncomfortably.

"What're you doing?" he asks. Stan shrugs, innocent.

"Nothing," he replies back.

"Stop looking at me like that, asshole," Kyle insists.

"Like what?" Stan cocks his head.

"Fine!" Kyle snaps. "Fine, I'll fucking hang out. Jesus."

"Sweet," Stan snaps back into a grin and throws an arm around Kyle's shoulder. He knows Kyle hates it, that it's one of those stupidly affectionate things that makes him roll his eyes and breeds within him a hatred for people and life and the world in general.

"For the record," Kyle says as he ducks out from under Stan's arm. "I've sucked your dick twice in the last twenty-four hours and this is still the gayest thing we've done today."

Stan sticks out his tongue and laughs when Kyle returns the gesture, even though there's something weighing heavily in his gut. He knows not to expect a lot from Kyle in the intimacy department—Rebecca has made passing comments about Kyle's robotic inability to recognize human need for affection—but goddamn it, it should be different with them. Stan's not Rebecca, or anyone else for that matter. Kyle's loved him for longer than anyone else on the planet (familial relations excluded, of course), so that means he should get something a little special… right?

They're not half a block away from Stan's house when Kyle's phone makes what has to be the loudest beep in all of Christendom. He rolls his eyes as Stan moves to cover his ears and checks the message.

"Fuck," he says, stopping in his tracks. "I've gotta go back home."

"Is everything okay?" Stan asks, brows swept up with concern. Kyle pockets his phone and runs his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah, I guess my mom's just not feeling well," he sighs and bites his lips. "Sorry, dude."

"Are you kidding?" Stan gives a laugh. "Your mom takes, like, all the priorities, dude. Is… is she all right?"

"I don't know," Kyle runs his hands over his face. "I… fuck it, I gotta go."

"No, yeah," Stan nods. "Of course."

"Thanks," Kyle gives an awkward shrug, about to turn away and run back home before Stan rolls his eyes and pulls him in by the sleeve of his coat. He crushes their lips together, a little too roughly at first but he holds Kyle in place by the back of his neck and softens up. Kyle seems to melt into it after a second, bringing his hands up to thumb gently at Stan's cheeks before he pulls away far too soon and gives him a tight-lipped, unsure smile.

"I'll see to you later," he says, and with a final peck to Stan's cheek, takes off back toward his house. Stan sighs, watching him run for a few moments, before he steels his nerves and walks back home. He gets inside to find the pull out couch suspiciously unoccupied, and breathes out a sigh of relief when he finds his room empty. Unless he'd managed to worm his way back into the master bedroom, Randy must have gone to stay with Uncle Jimbo last night after dinner.

Just as well—Stan's not too fond of the idea of sleeping under the same roof as Randy, and hasn't been for quite some time. He flops back onto his bed, which kind of still smells like Kyle, from the other night, and thinks about how strange he feels being in a bed on his own.

He sort of hates it, but starts dozing anyway. It's not twenty minutes before he hears his mom get up and go downstairs, and it's at least another hour before he hears Shelly stir next door. He doesn't even think of moving until he gets a text message from his mom, asking if he'll be home for breakfast or gift opening, and doing him the courtesy of telling him that Randy will be here after breakfast.

Stan texts back a disagreeable emoticon and the word "upstairs" before he buries his face in his pillow and tries to convince himself that alcohol will not be a necessary component to making his holiday tolerable.

As expected, his mom is outside his door after a few moments, knocking and letting herself in.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says and comes to sit on the bed beside him. "How are you feeling?"

Stan moans and rolls over onto his back, not opening his eyes even as she gingerly places her hand on his forehead.

"Kyle refused to kill me last night," he whines.

"That was thoughtful of him," his mom replies, and he can hear the amused smirk coloring her voice. "I can see it wasn't for a lack of trying; was he trying to bite through to one of your main arteries?" she asks, a finger passing over a sore spot on his neck.

His eyes fly open.

Kyle likes biting sometimes (which was a fun thing to learn), and sometimes Stan actually kind of likes being bitten (which was _really_ fun to learn), the downside of which was owning not a shroud of discreet clothing.

"I assume he gave you these," she says, still smiling as Stan tries to cover them and come up with some bullshit excuse. "Honey, I don't mind. I've walked in on you two blushing and covering your crotches more times than I care to count since he's been back. You boys do _not_ give me enough credit."

"You can't tell anyone," Stan frowns and sits up. His mom rolls her eyes and gives him one of those mom looks that he's never liked getting ever.

"Who am I going to tell, sweetheart?" she asks, and moves to run her fingers over the bruises a few more times. "You're about the same skin tone as me… I'll get you some cover up."

"Oh, my God," Stan lets his eyes slip shut as he hides his face in his hands. It's not happening. His mom's not accepting his whatever-relationship-thing with Kyle in the same breath as she's offering to let him use her cover up to hide his love bites.

"Oh hush," she reprimands him and squishes his face in between her hands. "Would you rather I kick you out of the house?"

"Actually," Stan attempts to begin, but she scowls and smacks him on the arm before ducking out of the room for a moment. She returns with a small thing of makeup that actually is very close to Stan's exact shade and tone of skin. He applies it, gives it back to her, and is informed that breakfast is ready.

When he gets downstairs, Shelly immediately asks him why he's wearing makeup, so he flips her off, and flips off his mother (who's descended into a rather raucous fit of giggles), and determines everyone in this family is out to get him.

This is only confirmed when Randy shows up at the front door with armfuls of gifts, dressed in a kitschy Christmas sweater Stan remembers from the dismal days of his childhood, and a broad grin on his face.

"Merry Christmas, Stan!" he greets, and already Stan's ready to impale himself upon the fireplace poker. "Here, take some of these," and suddenly Stan's got presents overflowing from his arms and onto the floor and why, why, _why_ didn't he just stay in bed with Kyle?

Stan takes an extra of his mom's cinnamon rolls as they go to sit around the tree. He knows he's going to need it, especially since she already caught him pouring a generous, Christmas-sized helping of her cheap vodka into his orange juice during breakfast.

They blow through gifts quickly, since there's only four of them and their gift giving is usually limited to only a few per person. Stan's kind of happy when his mom tears up at her journal, and feels a pang of something unfamiliar and warm in his gut when Shelly opens up her gift to find her coveted book starting back at her. He even gets a hug out of that one. He also sees that his mom must've wrapped his gift to his dad, because Randy looks way too elated about receiving a shitty book of jokes from his grown-up, adult son.

The rest of the gifts are nice, even if pretty standard. Shelly ended up getting their mom the perfume and their dad the tie (and again, he's way too excited to even have been thought of); she got a Broncos mug for Stan and a new jersey for him, since the one he usually sleeps in is full of holes. Stan also gets a few movies he's been wanting from his mom, and tries not to roll his eyes or be snide when he gets to his dad's.

Only it's something surprisingly un-eye-roll-inducing. In fact, once the paper's off and on the ground, he can't stop staring at it.

"It's a composer's notebook," Randy explains. "For your music and stuff. I figured you're probably tired of drawing extra lines in your notebooks."

Stan can't form words, really. It's not only thoughtful as far as gifts go, but it's something he didn't even realize he wanted until it was sitting right there in his lap. Maybe… fuck, maybe his dad actually _gets _him more than he lets on. Or, maybe he's always gotten him and Stans' been too much of a cock to realize.

… okay, that's not the case, but still. It's a fucking nice gift and he kind of doesn't know what to do with himself right now.

"Thanks," he just says, voice a little rough from being stuck in his throat for so long. "Thanks, dad."

"And hey," Randy gives him an affectionate clap on the shoulder. "I figure this way you and I can jam together if you end up writing something halfway decent."

And just like that, the happy feelings are gone. Something about the hopeful little statement sets him off and suddenly all he can see is red. Music is, like, one of the only things he still _actually_ enjoys and he's not fucking sharing it with his dad. So, he waits until gift-giving has ended to leave. He tells his mom that he's running out for milk or eggnog or whatever and immediately heads for Kenny's.

It occurs to him that he should probably go to Kyle, but… shit, Kyle's worried about his mom right now, right? Otherwise he would've been there to pull Stan into his bedroom and hug him and kiss him until he'd calmed down enough to function like an adult in a tense situation. Except Kyle wouldn't do that, probably, since Kyle probably wouldn't have realized that Stan was upset until Stan did something drastic. He gets so uncomfortable around feelings.

Wait, what the fuck. What if he'd known Stan would get upset and just lied about his mom? What if he'd just flat out fucking _lied_ to get out of sticking with Stan? He's seen him do it, too. Kyle lies, to friends and people he doesn't want to hurt, mostly, to get out of doing all sorts of shit he doesn't want to do with them. Usually, this happens when someone's being exceedingly annoying and Kyle's just had enough of them.

What if Stan was so annoying this morning that Kyle lied to get away from him? Stan _was_ kind of handsy earlier, and Kyle did do his fair share of ducking away.

Fuck.

Kyle hates him. Or, hates this, rather—whatever it is. Or maybe he hates both.

Fuck, Stan feels kind of sick.

He drives all the way to Kenny's and Butters' place with Kyle's most definite annoyance with him on his mind exclusively. He uses the key Kenny gave him to get into the building, and knocks when he gets to the actual apartment because, seriously? He's learned his lesson on that one way too many times.

Butters answers, some cheesy Christmas music pouring out into the hallway as he swings the door open. He looks to be in his pjs still, hair all mussed from sleep and his smile all delusional and bleary.

"Hey there, Stan!" he chirps brightly. "What brings you here on Christmas?"

"Hey, Butters," Stan sighs and walks in, going immediately to the couch and sitting. "Kenny here?" he asks.

"Nope," Butters shakes his head. "Karen's back in town for a few nights, so Kenny's spendin' some time with her."

Stan nods, like he understands what it's like to have someone in your family you can stand for more than a minute, and slides down the couch.

"Uh-oh," Butters sighs and sits down beside him. "All right, what happened now?"

So Stan lets it all out. He does it without eve thinking, without even the slightest fear that Butters might tell him to get out or shut up or anything of the sort, because Butters is, undoubtedly and undeniably, his friend. He's not like Kyle, who's no good with the emotional stuff, and unlike Kenny he's got a knack for sitting and listening without trying to problem solve. He lets Stan talk about everything, from having Kyle's dick in his mouth this morning to his dad being a total fucking tool, takes it all in stride. He doesn't mention it when Stan almost starts crying, nor does he make a big deal about Stan resting his head on his shoulder and asking for a hug.

A hug's just, like… the only thing he wants right now, and if anyone's going to give him one, it's Butters.

"Aw, come here," Butters laughs a little and pulls Stan into a full embrace. Stan throws himself into it, letting Butters pet his hair and kiss his head and rub his hands over his back. He smells good, clean—not as good as Kyle smells, but it's still nice.

"Poor guy," he hears Butters practically coo into his hair. "You just need a little love, don't you?"

Stan hates himself for nodding, but he needs—fuck, he needs to know that someone can stand being around him for a little while, and if that someone is Butters (who can stand just about anyone), then so be it. He doesn't fight it when Butters puts his fingers under his chin tilts his face upward, and may even whimper when he feels those soft, thick lips close over his.

Butters. He's kissing Butters… or Butters is kissing him. Either way, it feels nice. Butters is sure in his movements, and, fuck it, he's _good_. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's pretty sure he still likes kissing Kyle more, but Butters? Yeah, this guy's got some actual skill under his belt. He supposes he should expect nothing less from a guy who's been fucking Kenny McCormick for however long.

Oh, _fuck_.

Stan pulls away, hands on Butters' chest, and pants softly against his lips.

"Kenny," he just says.

Butters gives him a little shrug and pecks him quickly before replying, "Kyle."

"We're not together," Stan shakes his head, realizing that that's way more painful to say than he thought it would be. "You and Kenny are."

"I promise, he won't be mad," Butters says softly. "You're upset… I wanna help you feel better. He doesn't mind when I help people feel better."

Stan knows that shouldn't be good enough, but Butters' fingers are stroking softly in his hair and he's looking at him like he's something to be loved, to be fixed, to be made feel good. So, he just nods and lets Butters pull him to up off the couch and over to the bed. He has Stan kick off his shoes and take off his jacket before pushing him back into the nest of quilts and comforters and sheets. It's like the bed has its own atmosphere, polluted by cigarette smoke, spearmint, and sex, and it's kind of got Stan feeling a little excited.

Butters doesn't talk or anything, just lowers himself over Stan and starts kissing him again. His hands are everywhere, unafraid of touching him, looking for hotspots while working to reassure Stan that he's okay, that this is safe, and that he can have all the love he wants here. The thought makes Stan whimper.

Or, it's because Butters's hands are up his shirt and running up and down his stomach and chest. Yeah, it's probably that—every touch seems to coincide perfectly with his lips moving over his jaw, along the made-up column of his neck.

"I thought I saw hickeys under there," Butters laughs a little and attempts to kiss around them. Oh god, Stan likes this. He likes this way too fucking much. He can barely think as Butters hikes up his shirt and starts kissing his chest, paying attention to every inch of skin and making Stan feel so fucking _nice_ for once.

Not that Kyle doesn't make him feel nice, it's just… this is obviously for him_. _When he's with Kyle, it's like a game, which isn't _bad_. This is just different.

And he likes it.

"Want me to take off your pants?" Butters asks from down by Stan's hips. Stan can't respond, just nods, and Butters smiles. He shucks Stan's jeans, underpants, and socks all in one go and discards them over in the direction of his jacket and shoes. He sits back on his haunches, now entirely off the bed and looking unexpectedly lust-drunk already. Stan lets out a shaky sigh when he feels his fingertips tracing patterns over the insides of his thighs and tries really hard not to smash Butters' face into his dick.

He doesn't think Kenny would appreciate it if Stan broke his boyfriend, anyway.

"Hey, Stan?" Butters hums, pressing kisses into Stan's legs. "Can I show you somethin' that's not scary at all?"

"You son of a bitch, if you bite my dick off, I will kill you," Stan lets out a shaky breath. Butters laughs a little and shakes his head.

"'m not gonna touch your dick," he says softly and, _shitfuck_, runs the flat of his tongue over Stan's balls in the world's most torturous tease ever. "Put your legs on my shoulders, a-an' just trust me, okay? It'll feel real good."

Stan's wary, but he plays along. If Butters says it's not scary, chances are it's probably not. Butters isn't in the business of lying to people about that kind of thing. He lets Butters put his legs on his shoulders and shuts his eyes, trying to reign in the butterflies fluttering through his abdomen.

"Jesus!" he hears himself before he registers that he's had time to think the thought. Butters' tongue, warm and wet, is lapping softly at—around—Jesus fucking Christ, it's rimming. Butters is rimming him. And motherfucking hell, it feels so fucking _good. _ It sends electricity all up his spine and makes his brain feel like little more than a gelatinous pile of mush.

He actually lets out a keening whine when he feels that tongue probe inside him slightly. Butters takes the reaction and uses it to his advantage, hugging Stan closer and lifting him off the bed a little to get his tongue in a little deeper. He doesn't realize he's chanting 'moremoremore' until Butters pulls away entirely and looks up at him.

"Want my fingers?" he asks and Stan nods in the most frantic sort of ways. Fuck it, he wants all of everything ever, and he wants it right fucking now.

He watches as Butters climbs over him to the side of the bed and rummages through a drawer in the nightstand.

"Move up," he hears him say, and Stan does as he's told. He looks in the drawer with Butters and sees… so much more than he ever wanted to, honestly. These two have more brightly colored pieces of plastic in one drawer than a Toys-R-Us has in a whole store.

"Fucking Christ," Stan laughs as Butters finally pulls a bottle of lube out from the bottom of the drawer and slides it shut.

"Get your nose outta there," Butters chastises him mildly and pushes him back on the bed. "I don't need you gettin' scared."

Stan gives another laugh, more uncertain as Butters uncaps the tube and squirts a dollop of slick substance onto his finger. Stan shuts his eyes just as Butters' free hand comes to rest on his belly, just between his hips.

"Just relax, all right?" Butters says softly and, with that, teases a finger inside him. Stan shudders and clenches around the intrusion, but… he's felt worse things. Butters is gentle in his movements, back in between Stan's legs, kissing his legs and licking his balls again, and it's so much while managing to be not at all enough.

Then Butters' finger grazes over something that makes him groan and see stars and he's pretty sure there are tears at the corners of his eyes because _Butters apparently fucking refuses to touch his dick_. He thrusts up, tries to get Butters to remember it's there, but he's not having any of it. He just keeps hitting that spot inside Stan in a steady rhythm, stopping only so he can lube up a second finger and push inside.

It's a stretch, but Stan kind of likes it. It distracts him from everything else he's feeling, from the bullshit with his dad, and with his sister marrying a total fuckwad, and with being ass over feet in love with a fucking droid. Right now, all he can feel are Butters' fingers moving inside him and the sickening amount of pleasure he's getting from being touched in such an intimate way.

"Good fucking Christ, this is what you two do when I'm away?"

Stan clenches around Butters' fingers and attempts to sit up, but there's a hand on his chest that's keeping him from doing so.

"Quit it," Butters whispers as Kenny walks up beside him. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"I see you two are having a nice Christmas," Kenny bends over and kisses Butters on the cheek. "How'd this come about?"

Trust Kenny to be cavalier as fuck about walking in on his boyfriend fingering the ever loving fuck out of someone else.

"Dude, I don't even—_ah! _What the fuc—_ah_!" Stan sinks further into the bed as Butters gives him two particularly mind altering crooks of his finger.

"Stan's not havin' a good day," Butters replies simply. "He needed a little Christmas cheer."

"Got it," Kenny nods and looks up at Stan, face uncharacteristically earnest. "Want me to clear out while you guys finish?"

Stan's way too far gone for rational thought at this point. He loves Kenny, though, and figures that it can't be a bad thing, having him here. Butters keeps hitting that spot and its making Stan's toes curl and his body want everything these two are willing to give him.

"K-Ken?" he hears himself stammer. "Just… like, come up here and kiss me?"

Kenny's on it like nobody's business. He comes to stretch out beside Stan and cups his face in his hands, searching his eyes quickly before he pushes their mouths together. Stan's kissed Kenny a few times before, and he's always been ashamed to admit how much he likes it. Kenny's a good kisser on his own, but with Butters working inside of him it's fucking incredible.

They pull apart just as Butters withdraws his fingers to reapply lube.

"You're pretty hard there, Stan," Kenny looks down and smiles. "Butters is good, huh?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Butters calls from his place down by Stan's ass.

"You like having him inside you?" Kenny asks, licking along his bottom lip. Stan whines and nods, even though he'd love it even more if someone would just fucking touch his cock already. He doesn't know why he doesn't want to do it himself—maybe because touching yourself in front of someone else is too intimate for him or something.

Even though he's just had someone's fingers up his ass.

"Kenny," it's a warning tone from Butters that makes them look up. He's still between Stan's legs, propped up and giving Kenny an imploring look.

"What?" Kenny frowns a little, which only makes Butters shake his head and roll his eyes before he looks at Stan, still reassuring as ever.

"What do you want?" he asks, lightly running his fingers along the skin on Stan's belly, around where his dick is curved up and lying flat against him, but not actually touching it.

"Fucking—" Stan gulps, trying not to whimper. "I wanna come."

"We know," Butters nods sympathetically as Kenny sucks on his earlobe. "How do you wanna come?"

"Fuck me," Stan just replies, without much thought behind it. He doesn't care. Butters has teased him to the point of actual tears. "Please, just fuck me. I wanna come so bad."

"You sure?" Butters asks, eyebrows sweeping into his hairline. "It's gonna hurt like a bitch."

"Please," Stan groans and arches off the bed, head already filling with various naughty things these two could be doing to him right now. "Butters, please? Fuck me."

Kenny and Butters share a look before they both turn their attentions to Stan. Stan feels uncomfortable, too hot in his own skin, and the only way he's ever going to cool down is if someone fucking touches him right now, damn it.

"All right," Kenny says, and just like that he and Butters mobilize. While Butters starts rifling around in the nightstand drawer again, Kenny grabs a pillow from behind his head and pats Stan on the hip.

"Up you go, Marsh," he tucks the pillow under the small of Stan's back and gets up on his knees.

"N-now, Stan," Butters begins as he shoves his pants down, a condom resting gently between his teeth. He removes it and continues, "If you want me to stop, you just say so, all right?"

"Dude, come the _fuck_ on," Stan whines, which prompts Kenny to roll his eyes and give Butters another look.

"Never mind," Kenny shakes his head. "I know what we'll do. Get up on your hands and knees and we'll do it that way."

"Aw, Ken," Butters frowns a little. "I don't wanna hurt him."

Stan, in an effort to prove that he's not scared in the slightest, gets up on his hands and knees without another thought. Every fiber of him is thrumming—ready, waiting to be fucked—and if he doesn't get something soon he knows he's going to pass out.

"Well, there you go," Kenny says, running his fingers through Stan's hair and leaning down to whisper in his ear as he speaks. "Stan, are you scared?"

Stan shakes his head.

"Do you want Butters' cock in you?"

Stan nods and lets his top half come to rest on the bed sheets. Kenny kneels down in front of him, eyes piercing through him knowingly as he looks at his face for any dishonesty. He smiles, then, bringing a hand up to stroke at his cheek before he kisses him.

"You need to get fucked, don't you?"

Stan honest to god moans as he nods, because every single thing Kenny's saying goes right to his dick.

"Butters, come on," Kenny says, looking past Stan now.

"All right, all right," Stan can hear the sarcasm in Butters' tone. "Sheesh, you're such a freak."

The banter between them is almost enough to distract Stan from the insanely uncomfortable stretch of Butters pushing into him. He screws his eyes shut and Kenny immediately dips in to kiss him.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "You're all right, right? You're okay."

"Fucking _shit_, this hurts," Stan gives a disbelieving laugh. Kenny laughs right back and kisses him again.

"I know, dude," he says. "He's gonna make you feel good in a second, okay?"

"Jesus Christ, Kenny, would you shut the fuck up?" Butters manages to pinch out. He sounds a little like he's in pain too, like just breathing will send him into throes of agony.

"You okay, baby?" Kenny asks as he keeps petting Stan's hair.

"Yeah," Butters sighs, still pressing in inch by painfully slow inch. "Fuck, he's _tight_, though."

"So were you, once," Kenny quips, which makes Stan laugh a little and offers Butters the ability to push all the way in without too much more resistance. They stay like that for a minute, Butters tickling up and down his sides and over his belly while Kenny runs his fingers over his arms and kisses him all over his face.

"I'm," Stan finally begins, pushing himself shakily up to his hands. "I think I'm ready."

And like that, Butters begins moving. It's slow at first, and he stops to lube up a little more after a few thrusts, and after everything starts to feel a little better. Like, it still hurts, but it's bearable. Especially if Butters keeps making the noises he's making. Kenny's still kissing him every time Butters thrusts a little too sharply or goes a little too fast, trying to make him feel as okay as possible.

"Hey, Butters?" Kenny asks, pulling away from Stan.

Butters doesn't give a reply so much as he makes a noise in the back of his throat that could be taken for one.

"Can I fuck you while you're doing that?"

"'course," Butters groans and rests his head on Stan's shoulder blade. Kenny stands and goes to remove his pants, and Stan watches. He likes what Butters is doing, and doesn't want him to stop, but he also doesn't want Kenny to disappear behind him either. He likes having Kenny in front of him, loving on him, whispering nice things to him. It makes him feel so, so good for _once_ to have someone who's not afraid of being overtly affectionate handling him.

So, he grabs Kenny's dick in his hand and starts stroking. Kenny makes a satisfied sort of noise and mutters something about a change of plan, to which Butters has no reply. He just keeps thrusting into Stan in that same, calculated rhythm. Stan decides to up the ante a bit and take the head of Kenny's erection into his mouth.

Kenny outright groans at that and fists his hands in Stan's hair, and for a while they all work like some sweaty, panting piston. Stan can feel his erection fighting gravity, still against his stomach and leaking all over the place, still begging to be touched. His balls hang heavy between his legs, driving him insane every time Butters comes into contact with them.

"Holy crap."

That's Butters, Stan thinks. Maybe he's only just opened his eyes and seen what Stan's been doing to his boyfriend. Whatever it is, it's got him thrusting harder, faster, which gets Stan to sucking harder and moaning around Kenny. When Stan feels both of them lean toward each other, hears them both kiss above him, he loses it. He needs to come.

Like, now.

He tries to pull away, but Kenny holds him in place.

"Butters," he hears Kenny pant. "Fuckin' touch him, dude."

Butters complies, moving one hand off of Stan's hip and onto his dick, and it's all over. He pulls away from Kenny and buries his face in the bed again, grunting and snapping his hips back against Butters as he shoots all over the sheets and Butters' hand. He lays there while Butters finishes, coming with a pained little cry, feeling exhausted and used and so _fucking_ good even when he pulls out. He collapses then and tries to ignore the sucking noises from beside him.

He opens his eyes to see that Butters is finishing what Stan started, bobbing his head expertly over Kenny until he comes too.

Stan notes that Butters swallows, but after that all he really seems to want to do is sleep.

"Aw," Butters tuts as he and Kenny both haul him to a more dignified sleeping position. "Poor guy." They both settle in on either side of him, Butters behind him and Kenny before him—Kenny strokes his fingers over his forehead and cheeks while Butters kisses at the back of his neck.

"You did good, kid," Kenny says and kisses him.

At this, Stan takes slight indignation.

"Kid," he mutters. "I'm two weeks older than you, pisshead."

"Yeah?" Butters yawns. "Well, I'm older than both of you, an' I say be quiet an' take a nap."

Kenny and Stan wait a few minutes, until they hear the steady sounds of Butters' breathing, before they start talking again.

"The fuck was that?" Stan laughs a little.

"I don't know," Kenny shrugs, tracing the outlines of Stan's nipples through his shirt. "You tell me." So, Stan condenses what he told Butters earlier, for energy and sanity related reasons, and takes breaks every so often to let Kenny kiss him.

"You were upset, then," Kenny states, and stares when Stan doesn't make the connection. "Butters likes to cheer people up when they're down. You know that."

"By fucking them," Stan states more than asks. Kenny shrugs.

"Works on me," he says. "Works on you too. That's why you wanted Kyle around today, don't lie."

Stan falls silent at that, and Kenny seems to gather that he's struck a nerve. He kisses Stan again, softer this time, before pulling back and stroking his cheek.

"He's Kyle, dude," he yawns now. "He'll come around. It's not like he's being a dick on purpose."

"I know," Stan yawns back. "Just needed him today."

"You got what you _needed _today," Kenny points out, eyes slipping shut as he settles in closer to Stan. "Don't be a brat because you're not getting what you want."

Stan scowls, but it's short lived. Kenny kisses him again, an attempted 'now shut up and sleep'. Stan takes the hint and shuts his eyes, and even though he's feeling exhausted and beyond contented, he can't help the thoughts of Kyle floating through his mind as he drifts off into satisfying sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the wait, guys. <strong>

**Also, I guess there was a threeway in this. Who knew. **

**As always, a thank you to all of you who read and leave me feedback. I appreciate it, my lovelies. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Okay, so it's not exactly the crisis situation they think it is, but they're Jews—they have a tendency to overreact, all right? She's just a little more exhausted than normal when she comes to, and when they take her to the hospital they're reassured over and over again that she's just overexerted herself in the last few days, that it has nothing to do with the treatment, and that she'll be fine as long as she rests.

They're all relieved. Even if Kyle had to bail on Stan, if Gerald had to put off more work, if Ike had to remain sober for most of the day, each and every one of them is more than his fair share of thankful that they're all just overreacting nutjobs.

Stan calls the next morning to make sure everything's okay, and even though Kyle says that yes, it is, he still says he'll be over in fifteen minutes, like Kyle's just said that things couldn't be worse. Kyle crawls into bed, because after he's gone on his run and showered, all he really wants to do is be lazy for the rest of the day. He rolls over and looks at the ceiling, knowing that he should at least get his computer and answer emails or something, but he actually feels a little paralyzed. His mom is a month into radiation now, and she still has a few more weeks to go before anyone can say anything for sure, but yesterday… fuck, it just really scared him.

It's that same feeling of terror in his gut that he got when he woke up in a hospital close to the end of his first semester at MIT, hooked up to machines and being told that he'd basically gone into a diabetic coma, that he was lucky his roommates had found him when they had, and that he needed to start taking better care of himself before he actually dropped dead.

Kyle reaches into his nightstand and grabs his little glucose meter. He's not exactly fond of this process, even if he's used to it, but he's worked himself up into a neurotic frenzy and now he has to check. Stan comes in just as the little meter is done reading and reassures Kyle that he's not only fine, but about as normal as he could read.

"Hey," Stan says, crawling into bed beside him and kissing him on the cheek. "You okay?"

"Apparently," Kyle replies and puts the meter on the table. Then he wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders, pulls him close, and kisses him a little too hard. It's been so long since he's been in a relationship-type-thing that sometimes he forgets that he can actually kiss someone after an exhausting turn of events.

What's even more, it's pretty cool to kiss someone who wants to kiss you back. His last girlfriend, a socially inept civil engineering major, had needed just about as much maintenance and upkeep as Kyle usually does—good as far as stress levels went, since Kyle had to do half the work and got to reap about twice the amount of sex, but bad in terms of actual romance. Kyle's nowhere near considering himself a romantic, but it's taken being around Stan to remember that, yeah, just hanging out and kissing and shit is kind of awesome too.

"What's that for?" Stan asks when Kyle pulls away. Kyle shrugs and rests their foreheads together.

"'cause I wanted to," he says softly and pushes their lips together again. He hears Stan whimper against him and smiles. He likes the noises Stan makes for him.

"Yesterday was that bad?" Stan laughs when they pull apart again. Kyle sticks out his tongue and runs his fingers through Stan's surprisingly clean hair.

"What about you?" he asks. "You actually showered. Your day must've been awful."

"Ugh," Stan groans and pushes Kyle back against the bed, shifting them so he's laying half on top of him with their legs entwined and his head tucked under Kyle's chin. "Don't get me started on my day yesterday, dude."

"Are you all right?" Kyle asks, and Stan sighs.

"I'm fine," he says. "Just… fuck it. My dad's a fucking tool—"

"Which we already knew," Kyle points out.

"And he's just, like," Stan sighs, "so fucking overbearing with wanting to spend time with me. Like, that's literally the only thing he wants to do. Last night all he did was try to get me to fix my mom's dryer with him. Fuckin' shit, like I don't have better things to do with my life than sit there and wish I was dead."

"God, I'm glad my father-son bonding thing is watching Jeopardy," Kyle sighs a bit and kisses Stan's hairline. He doesn't know why he fights how good this boy makes him feel, even when he's all whiny and mopey and wishing he would die, because he knows people need every last bit of good feelings they can get in their lives.

The next few days go pretty much the same way—between Kyle taking care of his mom and helping Ike fix his computer, and Stan helping Shelly with wedding stuff, they spend their time making out and giving each other frenzied handjobs whenever they can find a few minutes alone. Kyle likes it—he's got this good feeling in his chest that he wants there always. Stan always gives him that, but now it's special, different…

Which is why Kyle finds himself perusing the internet for sex stuff again.

It's a subconscious thing he's always done whenever things start going well with someone. Sex should be done right, and a little information never hurt anyone. It's not just the porn he looks at, either. Kyle will spend hours reading through articles, browsing message boards… he's even camped out in novelty shops and read a variety of special books pertaining only to the subject of pleasure.

This is, of course, where Kenny McCormick _would_ find him: hunched over in one of the more remote corners of South Park's very own _Pleasure Trove_, reading up on how to prepare someone for anal penetration.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Kyle jumps out of his skin when he feels a very distinctive prodding of his shoulder. Kenny's standing over him, arms folded and brows cocked as he looks at Kyle with that stupid smirk on his face. "What the fuck are you doing?" Kyle clutches at his chest and stands up.

"Stocking up," Kenny replies and holds up a discreet paper bag. "My man and I were out of lube this morning. Figured I'd stock up before he gets home."

"Ugh, 'your man'?" Kyle groans and puts the book back on the shelf where he found it. "You two are disgusting."

"You know, that's what Stan always says," Kenny folds his arms and cocks his head, like he's considering Kyle's words deeply. "Personally, I think he's compensating."

"Yeah, I've seen his dick," Kyle snorts, even if he knows it's not that kind of compensating Kenny's talking about. "I don't think so."

"Oh, really now?" Kenny laughs. "Finally ready to admit you want to join the rest of us in the war against heteronormativity?"

"Jesus Christ, who let you take Queer Theory 101?" Kyle rolls his eyes, hoping the jibe is enough to distract Kenny from the fact that he's strayed toward a little display of lubricants. It hasn't, of course, but what's the least of his worries.

Maybe.

"So, what're you going with?" Kenny asks as he picks up a bottle of lube from the table and shoves it into Kyle's hands. "Quite personally, I favor 'pansexual', but I know my so-called 'better half' prefers a good ol' fashioned 'bisexual'. We both like 'queer', though. That's a good overarching general term."

"What the fuck are you talking about, asshole?" Kyle sighs, not wanting this. Any of this.

"In what way are you going to convey to the world that you've got a hard-on for cock?" Kenny bounces his eyebrows, and yeah, that kind of rubs Kyle in all the wrong ways. He doesn't think he likes guys as much as he likes _Stan_. He doesn't want to suck anyone else's dick, and the thought of sex–actual sex—with guys kind of makes him a little queasy still. He's not like Kenny, who dives right into things without question or care. Yeah, he wants Stan to do things to Stan, and wants Stan to do things to him, but not because he's a _guy_. He wants to make Stan feel good because he's Stan, and Stan deserves to feel good every once in a while.

"I'm Marsh-sexual," Kyle just mutters, which only makes Kenny snort and point out that there are many different Marshes to which that could apply, so Kyle amends that he is "Stan-sexual" instead.

Though he wonders if Stan's answer is the same. Stan's always struck him as the kind of guy who'd be interested in guys in general, even if they'd never discussed it together, but it's probably just because he's way more emotionally invested in things than most guys are… and for some reason that's what makes someone gay?

Kyle shakes his head. This is South Park, not the fucking backwoods of the rural south. Things are cool here—strange, but cool.

"Heteronormativity got you down?" Kenny asks sympathetically. Kyle rolls his eyes in response and fiddles with the bottle of lube in his hands.

"Do me a favor," he says. "Shut the fuck up with your social crusading for ten seconds and tell me how to do this without hurting him, please?"

Kenny smiles and folds his arms and smirks in that lascivious way that's always kind of made Kyle's skin crawl.

"Want me to give you a demonstration?" he poses. "I'm pretty good with my fingers."

"God, gross," Kyle sticks out his tongue and tries not to shudder. "Not into it."

"If you wanna wait 'til Butters gets home—"

"Dude!" Kyle snaps and folds his arms over his chest, feeling a little violated, but he lowers his voice a bit when he realizes that the girl behind the desk is looking at him with a cocked brow. "I don't want to watch you finger your boyfriend, okay? Just… I want to know how to do it right, all right?"

Kenny looking back at him with that unsettlingly piercing stare, like he's trying to puzzle together something about Kyle by just looking at him. Kyle doesn't know how he does it—how he acquires such vast amounts of information about people without even speaking, but somehow he manages it. He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a little breath.

"This is like Rebecca all over again," he smiles a little, sliding back into that taunting air again. "'member that, when you asked me how to eat pussy? How'd that conversation go for you, Kyle?"

Kyle feels himself flush bright red, but doesn't say anything about it. Embarrassing as it had been, Kenny actually knows what he's talking about with this stuff, and Kyle can now actually boast a pretty impressive prowess when it comes to… well, when it comes to that. He figures Kenny's been sleeping with a guy for however long, he can fucking well at least tell him how to keep Stan's ass intact.

"All right," Kenny shrugs, stuffing the paper bag into his jacket pockets and making—oh for the love of _god_—making a tight ring with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. "This is—"

"Oh, my god, I know what it is," Kyle hides his face in his hand, which only makes Kenny smirk harder.

"Say it."

"No, asshole!"

"There, was that so hard?"

He whines and clutches his arm where Kyle punches him, but Kyle's of the mind that he fucking deserved it, so. Whatever.

"Fucking twat," Kenny sighs and rotates his shoulder a few times. Kyle can't help but think he's being just a tad overdramatic. "You're the one with the sphincter hang-ups, not me."

He blocks the next punch from Kyle and rights himself, presenting his balled up fingers again and giving Kyle a look that clearly says 'hit me again, fuckface'.

"First things first," Kenny begins, "make sure he's relaxed. If you go in while he's tense or stressed or some shit, you're gonna hurt him. I know it's super fucking gay and you're gonna roll your eyes at me for saying it, but a massage or a hot shower before you try? Never hurt anyone."

"Fucking Christ," Kyle rubs a hand over his face.

"You asked, dickweed!" Kenny snaps, positioning the fingers of his left hand against the right. "Now, lube: no such thing as too much, okay? If he's—he's never done this before so, y'know… he's gonna feel it."

"Dude, would you knock it off with the hands?" Kyle grabs him by the wrists and forces his hands back down to his sides.

"Gee, Mr. Broflovski, you sure are forward," Kenny sticks out his tongue, laughing as he struggles against Kyle's force.

"Um, excuse me?" says the girl behind the counter. "If you're going to buy that could you just, like… do that? I don't need a fight breaking out in here, okay?"

Kyle shoves Kenny, who shoves him back as he approaches the counter to pay. The girl gives them both a look as the exit the shop, and much to Kyle's dismay Kenny replies to this by shoving his hand in Kyle's back pocket and squeezing. The moment they're out on the street, Kyle squirms away from him and gives him an indignant look, all ready to chastise him if it weren't for his phone ringing away in his pocket.

"Oo, the call of a lover?" Kenny teases as Kyle flips him the bird and answers.

"Hey, Brian," he says. It's his roommate, probably locked out of the apartment again and completely unaware that Kyle's still out of the state.

"Hey, man," Brian replies, Boston accent thick and abrasive on the other end. "Look, I'm goin' through the bills here and, ah, I'm lookin' for your rent check an' I don't see it."

"I left it on your desk, dude," Kyle sighs, waving goodbye to Kenny as he takes off down the street in the opposite direction.

"Oh, yeah," Brain nods on the other end. "I got it. Hey, listen, when do you think you're headin' back, huh? I mean, I know you got your shit with your ma an' everythin', but I called you last week about it… got a buddy who's gonna be here next month lookin' for a job, so, y'know, if you're lookin' to sublet you let me know, all right?"

"Fuck," Kyle scratches at the back of his head. "Fuck, I meant to call you about that. It sounds good and everything, I've just gotta come back this weekend and get some stuff and talk to the guys at work."

"Yeah, he won't be here 'til the second anyway," Brian says. "I'll tell him it's a go, though, yeah?"

"Yeah," Kyle nods. "I'll let you know which day I'm coming back, all right?"

"Wicked," Brian agrees. "Later, Broflovski."

"Bye," Kyle sighs and hangs up, resting the phone against his forehead. He hasn't told anyone except Ike that he's going to be staying through 'til February. His mom will be happy, since he's mostly staying for her and to make sure everything goes okay post radiation. Normally he'd talk to Stan about this kind of thing, but—

Wait, why's there a 'but'? Stan's still his best friend, for fuck's sake, cocks involved or no. True, he's a crapshoot in the sobriety arena half to time, so their conversations hardly every err on the side of serious anymore, but it's worth a try. He gets in his car and drives over to Stan's. He's still on break, while everyone else in the house has gone back to work. If Kyle's lucky, Stan will be sober.

He doesn't call, because he never does when he drops by Stan's, so he's not entirely surprised when Stan's in front of the TV, playing Xbox and eating out of a bowl of Froot Loops in nothing but his underwear when he walks through the front door. Stan smiles when he sees him, a mouthful of cereal and a rather unkempt look about him. It's kind of endearing, if only because this is the kind of Stan Kyle loves. He's a big kid under that adult exterior—it's frustrating a lot of the time, but when he's doing things like eating brightly colored cereal out of a bowl that's three sizes too large for normal human consumption, playing games they used to play when they were kids, it's hard not to feel a little swell of something good in his chest.

"Hey there, stud," Kyle snorts and goes to sit beside him.

"Hey," Stan beams and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. It still sends a little spark of something sailing down Kyle's spine, feeling Stan's lips on him. "I'm enjoying my rare day free from tyranny. Care to stick around while I set up guitar hero?"

"Actually," Kyle deflates and leans back against the couch. "I kinda just wanted to… like, maybe talk to you or something?"

Stan frowns at this and pauses his game, setting the controller down in front of him as he does. He reaches behind him, grabbing a shirt from off the back of the couch and pulling it over his head in an effort to make himself more presentable for whatever conversation is looming. Kyle appreciates it, even if he likes it when Stan foregoes a shirt.

"What's going on?" Stan asks, reaching over and running his fingers through the hair on Kyle's temples. It's a simple touch, but it somehow releases the tension from Kyle's back and shoulders. He feels the weight lift off his chest a bit, but only so much so that he can breathe and actually get out what he's attempting to say.

"My mom's got cancer," it comes out, his voice distant and tinny, like it came out of someone else's mouth in another time and place. "She's been in radiation for a few weeks, but… that's why I came back. And I'm gonna stay here through next month... or until she's done with treatment and we're sure she's okay."

Stan's silent, like Kyle's words have paralyzed him and there's no telling what he wants to say—all he can do is stare blankly back and wait for him to speak again. Kyle sighs and pulls his knees up closer to his chest, half-wishing he hadn't said anything but knowing fully well that he'd had to. He hasn't felt right keeping this from Stan, and he knows that's what's been making him feel so out of sorts about everything else. He already feels better, though he doesn't think he can say the same for Stan.

"Dude," Stan finally blurts out. "Dude, what the fuck! Is she okay?"

"She's doing a lot better than her doctor thought she would," Kyle lets out a shaky breath. "You know my mom, though. Normal people get cancer, they think it's the end—she gets cancer and is offended that it's taking time out of her fucking Angry Jewish Mother Cause Number 5,387."

Stan laughs at this, resting his forehead against Kyle's temple and hooking his arm around his neck. There's something nice in the way Stan tries to comfort him, kissing him and nosing at his cheek and giving him this feeling, like… he can keep talking, and it will all be okay.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Stan asks, pulling away a bit so as not to suffocate or anything of the like. Kyle appreciates it.

"Because I didn't want this to be your thing," Kyle shrugs and sits up a bit. "This is my thing, y'know? I have my things, you have your things, and they stay your and my things."

"Kyle," Stan cocks his head and gives him a look that's apparently supposed to make Kyle feel like an idiot. "Are you fucking new, dude? You're my best friend: when have our problems ever been our own?"

Kyle gives him a little smile and shifts, but doesn't say anything else. So, Stan just rests his chin on his shoulder and holds him close.

"Are you scared?" he hears him ask, and Kyle just

Fucking

Loses it.

He doesn't even get the usual heat behind his eyes that he usually does before he feels tears leaking out of his eyes. He hates crying, which is why he doesn't make a habit of doing so on a regular basis, but he recognizes that it's a normal human thing that needs to happen every once in a while and, as much as he'd like to deny it, he is, indeed, a human being.

He wipes the tracks from his cheeks, accepting the tissue Stan hands him and using it to blow his nose instead of wipe up the tears he's not crying. Stan doesn't touch him or kiss him while he cries, which Kyle's grateful for. He thinks that that will cause a system overload and that he might shut down for good if Stan dares do something as loving as kiss him and tell him everything is going to be okay. He's back in best friend mode, which… thank the powers that be for that.

"I don't want my mom to die, Stan," he manages to make himself say through a bout of pretty obvious sobbing.

"I know you don't, dude," Stan replies softly.

"But like," Kyle shifts. "Statistically—"

"Dude, fuck statistics," Stan tosses back. "Your mom's tough. So's your dad, and Ike, and so are you. You're all gonna get through it no matter what happens, right?"

"I know, but fuck, man," Kyle leans forward, putting his head between his knees and taking a few deep breaths. "_Cancer_," he says and sits back up. "That's fucking heavy, right? That's what everyone's afraid of, this thing that's like... no one knows if you're going to live or die, if it's gone or if it's going to come back until you're lying there in a fucking _box_, you know? I don't want that to happen to my mom. Like, what if the radiation doesn't help, and she has to go on a shitload of drugs, and she gets so sick that she can't even stand, or something goes wrong and she just wastes away until she's nothing. I can't fucking take that, dude… Like, it makes me a horrible fucking son or whatever that I don't even care how she feels about it, but what the fuck ever. I can't watch my mom go through that. I can't just sit here and do nothing while my mom dies. God, I'm so fucking _useless_."

Kyle feels a little empty when he finally breaks to breathe, like he was unaware that his body could hold so much in it without bursting at the seams. Then again, he supposes that's why he started crying, ill-advised as it was. He doesn't look over at Stan, but he doesn't have to to know that he's sitting there all concerned-looking and wishing he had the right words to apply to the situation. Kyle knows he's going to try to find them.

"First of all," Stan says softly. "You said that she's doing better than expected, right? So that's good. Second… dude, it's okay to be selfish about this. It's fucked up. You're allowed to have feelings about it."

"Yeah, but it's happening to her," Kyle rubs at his temples. "Like, I have the audacity to be offended that she's dying?"

"She's not fucking dying," Stan rolls his eyes. "And, y'know… she's worrying enough about what's happening to her without you having to worry about it too. Worry about what's happening to you and how you're handling it, dude."

Kyle looks over at him at that, sort of stunned into silence for a second before he says, "Wow. That was pretty fucking prolific."

"Yeah," Stan frowns, like he's a little surprised by it himself. "Guess some of that shit my shrink used to tell me actually stuck."

Kyle smiles and, in a fit of spontaneous stupidity, leans forward and kisses Stan right on the mouth. He feels better, lighter than he normally does, and he knows that it's because he's just verbally purged—he feels the same after he pushes himself during a run, or after he punches something. He pulls back a bit and smiles at Stan, wondering what this warm feeling is in his gut and why no one told him kissing someone could be so fucking therapeutic.

"You, uh," Stan pulls back a little, color high on his cheeks, and picks up the controller. He offers it to Kyle. "You want a turn?"

Kyle nods vaguely and turns to the screen. He's playing Black-Ops, and if there's one thing Kyle usually needs to feel better, it's shooting the shit out of everything in first-person shooter. Except…

What he's feeling is decidedly _un_usual.

"No," Kyle says softly instead and pushes the controller back to the ground. He doesn't think he could concentrate on a game right now if he tried—he's all foggy and feeling much too heavy in the head. Then he takes a deep breath when he realizes that Stan is waiting for a cue from him, because he doesn't think he knows what he wants. That doesn't happen to him very often… at least not often enough for him to be aware of it.

"We could go upstairs," Stan shrugs. "I have my laptop up there—oh fuck! Hang on a sec," he says, and puts a finger up to keep Kyle in his place when he goes to run upstairs. He returns with a DVD case and, regrettably, pants. He sits beside Kyle and, with a big grin, holds the case out for him to see.

"Holy shit!" he exclaims and snatches it. "You found _The_ _Life of Brian_?"

"Well, I don't think it's hard to find," Stan laughs, "but yeah. I got it for you."

Kyle pauses at that and looks back to Stan. "For me?" he asks. Stan's got that earnest, puppy dog look about him as he nods.

"I know you don't have it," he rubs at the back of his neck. "I mean, I wanted to give it to you the other day, but it kinda… didn't work out. You wanna watch it?"

"Fuck yeah," Kyle grins and, without so much as a thought, brings Stan into one of those stupidly long lingering hugs that they always get made fun of for sharing. Kyle hops up onto the couch as Stan pops in the movie, and laughs when Stan comes to sit back beside him, already going through his favorite quotes before he's even hit play.

They fall asleep halfway through, Kyle's head on Stan's shoulder and Stan's resting atop Kyle's, which Kyle only knows because that's how they wake up when the end credits are rolling. It's oddly intimate, which, Kyle supposes, is why it's his automatic instinct to kiss Stan.

That, and Kyle's got a raging post-nap hard-on, and he sees that Stan's in a similar predicament. They make the move upstairs without too much fuss, because it would be just their luck that they start getting hot and heavy on the couch only for Sharon or Shelly to walk in on them.

So they take to falling over each other on Stan's bed, both trying to wriggle out of their clothes and only succeeding about halfway before they get caught up in kissing each other. Stan's back down to his boxers, while Kyle's gotten as far as taking off his shirt, his shoes, and his socks. Kyle sighs as Stan moves to kiss down his jaw and his throat, feeling his erection strain uncomfortably against its confines. Apparently, along with mousey girls with high IQs and impressive sex drives, it also really enjoys awkwardly clumsy guys with cute smiles and unhealthy amounts of plaid flannel shirts.

"Stan?" Kyle hears himself, without much of an intention.

"Yeah," Stan mutters against Kyle's skin. Fuck, now he has to say something.

"I like your smile," he settles on lamely. It must be the right thing to say, because it's got Stan grinning from ear to ear, so Kyle makes a mental note of it. Stan's not a bad-looking human—in fact, he's one of the better-looking ones—but something tells Kyle that he probably doesn't think this about himself. So, he rolls over so he's on top of Stan and keeps kissing him everywhere he possibly can. Stan's pretty receptive, kissing back whenever he gets the chance and whispering words of encouragement as Kyle kisses him lower, and lower, and lower…

Kyle stop short of pulling off Stan's underwear and instead tries to think of the proper way to convey what exactly it is he wants out of this particular romp.

_"Hey can I fuck you_" sounds way too blunt and stupid, while "_I'd rather like to put my dick in your ass" _sounds way too polite. It's just a weird thing to ask in Kyle's mind, at which point he realizes that every girl he's ever slept with has brought it up first. He doubts Stan will bring it up, and he's actually getting a little too muzzy to play him into saying it. Goddamn, he's just gonna have to do it, isn't he.

"Can I fuck you?" he asks, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping Stan doesn't shove him off the bed.

"Yeah… yeah, dude."

Oh.

That was easy.

"Uh," he gulps, shakily pushing himself up onto his knees. "I have stuff in the car—"

"What," Stan frowns curiously, "like, lube and stuff?"

Kyle nods, only to color further when Stan reaches under his bed and pulls out a bottle of lube. It's a little slippery around the neck, making it almost impossible to catch, but Kyle manages. It's also the same kind Kenny picked out for him back at the shop.

"You opened it?" Kyle finds himself asking as Stan shucks his underwear and tosses them aside.

"Yeah, I—" Stan pauses for a second, like he's unsure of whether or not he should continue on his little sharing endeavor. He's hard, harder than Kyle's ever seen him, and Kyle can't help but wonder if it's in sheer anticipation of being fucked.

"You… what?" Kyle clears his throat. He wants to lean down and take him into his mouth for a few seconds—he's had more than enough time to get used to the taste and texture of Stan's dick, and found that he actually likes it more than he thought he would.

"I wanted to try it," Stan fumbles through the words. "On myself."

"You fingered yourself?" Kyle asks, all sorts of distracted now by the thought of Stan face down on the bed and pumping his fingers in and out of himself.

Okay, yeah, he's been wearing pants long enough now. He tosses his pants and underwear off somewhere and struggles with the cap of the bottle. He squirts a generous amount of the liquid onto his fingers before remembering that he's supposed to make sure Stan's relaxed. Stan's looking at him with an air of nervous anticipation, so Kyle bites his lip and wonders how he's going to get Stan to calm down without massaging him or finding a hot tub or anything retarded like that.

Kyle looks down at his dick again and it clicks. Getting his dick sucked always relaxes him, it'll damn-well work for Stan. He accidentally grabs Stan with his slippery hand and kind of makes a face around Stan when his lips come into contact with what is decidedly _not_ flavored lubricant. He goes slow, to make sure Stan doesn't get too wound up too quickly, and when he appears to be in a particularly gelatinous state, starts circling Stan's entrance with one finger.

"_Fuck,_" he hears Stan mutter when he pushes his finger inside. Oh god, it's hotter and tighter than anything Kyle's ever felt. He can already tell it's going to be incredible, being inside Stan, that he's going to have a tough time going as slow as he'll need to. If it's possible, he knows he's harder than he was just a minute ago just at the thought.

"Dude," Stan whines, propping himself up again so he can run his fingers through Kyle's hair. "Dude, your—"

Kyle chances a look up and sees Stan bending his finger. He gives a confused hum, but crooks his finger anyway, puzzled as fuck when it appears that this is what Stan was trying to say. Then he hits a little lump and remembers, oh yeah, there's that. Wow, he's gotta be fucking _gone_ if he doesn't remember all that shit he's been reading for the last few days. He adds another finger, working slowly up to a third before he dares withdraw and ask for a condom.

It becomes insanely real the second Stan pushes the foil packet into his hand. They're about to fuck. Kyle's about to fuck his best friend. Stan's actually willing to let Kyle shove his dick in his ass and hump him until he comes. There's too much for him to feel, so he just does the next best thing and starts laughing. Stan frowns, about to say something, when Kyle surges forward and kisses him.

"Not you," he says softly. "This. How fucking ridiculous is this."

"I don't know," Stan shifts. "But it feels like you're laughing at me."

"I'm not," Kyle shakes his head, kissing him again. "I'm not laughing at you. You're fucking perfect, okay?"

Stan's eyes get big at that.

"Yeah?" he rasps, grabbing the condom out of Kyle's hand and opening it. Kyle nods and sighs as Stan rolls the rubber down over him. God, he's feeling a little delirious, this is all getting so real.

"I love you, dude," he whispers, out of a lack of anything else to say, and cups Stan's face in his hands. "I love you—of course you're perfect."

Stan kisses him hard at that, laying back and letting Kyle lift his legs over his shoulders and suddenly Kyle's pushing his way into him. He's got to be on some sort of autopilot, because he's pretty sure if left to his own devices he wouldn't be whispering such nice things or kissing Stan so softly, or telling him just how good he's doing or how tight he is. By the time he's in all the way, he feels whole—complete—like he's finally done searching for fillers for the voids in his life. Stan fills every void perfectly, and he always has. Kyle's just been a little too dumb to realize it.

"Kyle," Stan's voice is thin, breakable, and so Kyle kisses him. Kisses make that kind of thing better, right? Stan whimpers into it, bent in half almost entirely, just happy to be paid attention to and loved on for once.

Kyle thinks maybe he should love on Stan a little more, but he can't be sure because Stan's so _fucking _tight and he may be at that point where everything starts short circuiting up in his brain parts.

It's another few minutes before they start moving together, slowly at first before they pick up a nice, steady rhythm. Kyle makes sure to kiss Stan at every moment he can, to reach down and stroke him in time with his thrusts, because Stan likes that sort of thing and Kyle likes making Stan happy.

Everything turns into a frenzied haze as soon as Kyle starts hitting that little spot inside Stan again. It's clumsy, and Kyle's a little too sweaty for his own tastes, but he has to keep going. He has to keep these shocks of pleasure running through him, keep that slack-jawed look of absolute bliss on Stan's face for as long as he can.

"Shit," Stan coughs a bit, thrusting up against Kyle as best as he can and screwing his eyes shut.

"Coming?" Kyle asks. Stan gives a frantic nod about half a second before he lets out a guttural noise and comes in sticky white spurts all over Kyle's hand. He clenches down hard enough to send Kyle's hips spazzing into him erratically. It's when the smell of Stan on his hand hits his nose that he knows he's done for. He comes with a hoarse cry, slamming into Stan probably a little too roughly, but he'll apologize later. He rolls off of Stan and tries to will himself to melt into the bed so he never has to leave.

He can't remember the last time he came that hard.

Kyle knots up the condom and tosses it in the trash. He misses narrowly, but he doesn't care. He rolls back over and buries his face in Stan's neck, nuzzling and shifting until he finds a comfortable position. Stan smells sweaty and musky and sexy and _fuck_, Kyle needs sleep before he actually tries to start forming thoughts again. He's almost there, content in Stan's arm around him and chest moving against his, when Stan speaks.

"I love you too, y'know," he murmurs into Kyle's hair.

"I know," Kyle yawns.

"And you're perfect too."

"I know."

Kyle laughs as Stan jabs him in the ribs, and decides that he's content no matter what, as long as Stan keeps holding him like this.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy Monday guys! <strong>

**So, we're at the point where things will start picking up, I believe. Also, there's been a lot of sex the last few chapters. I don' t know whether to apologize or not, but I figure an acknowledgement is just as good. **

**Thank you for reading and for all of your feedback! Legitimate smiles have been (and are always) had on your behalf. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"All right, what do you think?"

"That your ass is too big for a mermaid dress," Stan replies sardonically, draped over the arm of a couch and staring dejectedly up at the bone-white ceiling above him. This is the third day in a row he's been dress shopping with Shelly, and, even though his mom's at least there today, Stan's about one more sequined sash and tiara combo away from going on a homicidal rampage.

"Stanley," he hears his mother warn, but she's too busy working on the crossword puzzle from this morning to really give a rat's ass. Ever since Shelly announced that her wedding is now taking place in six weeks, Stan's noticed that his mom is even less enthused about the whole charade than she was before.

Stan's still a bit hung up on the whole 'Eric Cartman will soon be my brother-in-law' thing, but he supposes the immediacy of it does exacerbate things just a bit.

God fucking damn it, he wishes he'd put more Bailey's in his coffee this morning.

God.

Fucking.

Damn it.

"I think this neckline is good," Shelly says, and Stan shuts his eyes. "What do you guys think?"

"It's nice," their mom replies.

"I don't spend enough time looking at your tits to care," Stan shrugs. "Though, have you considered how your fiance's tits will look under his tux? I think that's a more pressing concern." His mom whacks him in the head with the newspaper for that one.

Stan sits back up and runs his fingers through his hair. He hates all this wedding shit, yeah, but nothing has ever actually bred within him so much rage that he's _actually_ looking forward to going back to work. School's back in session next week, which means Stan will finally have an excuse as to why he can't go around testing caterers with her or other stupid shit like that. It's already been made abundantly clear that cake-tasting will be a '_her and Eric'_ thing, to which Stan replied with a "he knows he doesn't get to taste the _whole_ cake, right?" She hit him, because of course she did.

More than any of this, though, he fucking misses Kyle. It's being eighteen all over again, sitting here not knowing what to do with himself now that Kyle's gone. Granted, Stan had had school to distract him for a little while last time, whereas now all he has for a distraction is Shelly getting her bitch all over everything.

Kyle's been gone for all of two days. It's New Year's Eve—he was supposed to be back today, but he hit a snag with the guys at work and got roped into helping them with a server crash or something, so he's supposed to be back on Monday.

It's only Saturday, goddamn it.

Stan's pretty sure it's against etiquette and common decency to fuck a guy and then flee across the country, like, the next day.

Stan's still a little sore, but not inhumanly so—he feels it just enough to remember that, yeah, Kyle was inside of him not too long ago and that it's not going to be long before he is again. For as scary as he thought it would be, Stan's come to find that twice he's taken it up the ass, and twice he's really, _really_ fucking liked it. He's starting to wonder if that makes him gay… like, gay-gay. He's always thought that everyone's at least a little gay, but there's 'a little gay' and there's 'being shoved into a mattress and getting your ass fucked beyond all reason'. Is that 'gay', or can he still file under 'questioning' when tax season rolls around?

"Stanley, honey?" he hears his mom say, and he looks over. Shelly's apparently gone to try on another dress (god _why_), leaving him alone in this little showing room alcove thing with his mother and a swarthy old yenta dress-fitter, who's eyeing him suspiciously.

"What's up, mom?" he asks, hearing the exhaustion in his voice. He doesn't sleep great anymore without a nice warm Kyle to curl around.

"I know this isn't exactly ideal," she murmurs, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and hugging him close. "But if it makes your sister happy, that's all we should care about, all right?"

"But—"

"Do me a favor and don't argue," she says and kisses him on the cheek. "It's too early in the game to argue. Be respectful, please? Maybe at least act like you're twenty-three instead of thirteen."

"But I don't want to," Stan whines, perfectly ready to make all kinds of a scene when Shelly comes out in another dress. This one...

Hey, this one actually looks pretty nice on her. It's one of the ones you see on those TLC wedding shows, where the bride is looking for a princess dress or something. It's tight on top and fluffy on bottom—hell, with this dress no one will even notice how big her ass is.

"Oh, sweetheart," their mom says and immediately starts tearing up. "Sweetheart, you look absolutely _gorgeous_."

"Thanks, mom," Shelly smiles. She looks so much younger in such a big, pretty dress, so much nicer. Like, if Stan didn't know any better, he'd totally buy that she was a decent human being, just from the way she looks right now.

"It's real pretty, Shel," he settles on saying, and this looks to mean more to her than anything. Her eyes well up, and now Stan's surrounded by teary women. Jesus Christ, he's so glad he never has to deal with this kind of thing ever in his own life. He highly doubts he'd get teary-eyed over a tux with his dad.

Ugh, strike that—getting tuxes together will probably evoke tears from one such Randy Marsh. It _will_ be painful, and it _will_ be unbearable. God willing, at least, Kyle will be there with him, just as miserable as he is.

Though, if he's remembering prom correctly, Kyle looks damn fucking good in a tux. Yeah, Stan was a little tipsy that night, after having just broken up with Wendy the week before and been forced to go stag with Kyle, so he just kind of thought everyone was attractive in general, but… goddamn, Kyle has the fucking build for a tux, man.

Stan's brought out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing away in his pocket. He only goes to grab it so fast because he's hoping it's Kyle, finally getting back to him after the text he sent earlier, but it's not him. Of course it's not him.

It's Randy calling, and even though he knows he should try to be a little more tolerant he absolutely cannot help the groan that tears out of his throat at the thought of talking to him. His mom and Shelly look over at him like he's just started jumping around and yelping like a fucking ape.

"Dad's calling," he explains.

"Well, answer it!" his mom chides as she adjusts a light blue sash around Shelly's waist. Stan rolls his eyes, whines again, but brings his phone to his ear and answers.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Stan," Randy says, not even waiting for Stan to reply before he continues. "What do you say you and me have a guy's night with Eric, huh? Welcome him to the boys club, have a little fun."

"Uh," Stan begins lamely. He actually can't think of anything he'd rather do less, shopping for his sister's wedding dress included. There's no telling what Randy's idea of a "guy's night" includes, though Stan can guess it involves something like cooking outdoors.

Which Stan wouldn't mind if he didn't have to do it with his dad

"Come on," Randy jostles him a bit. "Come on, we haven't hung out together since I've been here."

"Uh, what'd you have in mind?" Stan asks as he navigates away from his mom and sister, going over to a rack of dresses and running his fingers over the smooth white fabric as he tries to keep his mind off of the horror that is spending time with his father.

"I was gonna take you boys bowling."

Ugh… Of course he was.

And Stan doesn't even have Kyle to use as a scapegoat, because the fucker is all the way across the country and _not_ answering his text messages.

"I mean," he begins, "I guess… I'm just feeling a little burnt out with all the wedding stuff, you know?"

"Why?" Randy asks. "Not like you're getting married. Weddings aren't supposed to make _men _tired, Stan. That's what happens to the bride and her girlfriends."

"Nice, dad," Stan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Come on, Stan," Randy says again. "We'll have fun, just like we used to."

"Yeah!" Stan snaps and then pulls back when he realizes that his mom is probably staring at him again. "Yeah, dad… I'll hang with you and Ca—Eric tonight."

It feels wrong, calling Cartman by his first name, and it actually leaves a little bit of a bad taste in his mouth… he supposes that's a little dramatic, but whatever. If he's going to be half-gay, he figures he's entitled to a little melodrama.

"Well, all right then!" Stan can hear Randy beam over the phone. "Tell you what, are you still out at the bridal shop with the girls?"

"Yeeup," Stan replies, stifling a yawn and trying as hard as he can not to be an asshole.

"Have Eric pick you up, you guys can meet me at the bowling alley," Randy decides. "We'll get some pizza, knock back a few beers together… guys gotta bond too, right?"

"Right," Stan sighs. "I'll see you in a bit."

He hangs up and goes back to the couch to sit by his mom, letting out a heavy sigh as he opens up a text screen and tells Cartman to come get him at the shop. They go back and forth for a few texts, giving each other shit, but eventually he agrees. Cartman doesn't get the same rise out of Stan that he gets out of Kyle, so usually their sparring matches usually end in Cartman complying with Stan's requests or vice versa.

Stan sends a text to Kyle: _'spending the night with fatass and my alleged father. may kill myself ngl'_

Cartman gets there not too long after, which sends Shelly fleeing back into the dressing room and shouting about bad luck. Stan just rolls his eyes and hurls himself off the couch, leaning down to give his mom a kiss on the cheek before bracing his hands on his hips and tells Cartman that he's ready to go.

"Wait!" Shelly exclaims and pops her head out of her room. She looks at Cartman, like Stan remembers his mom looking at Randy when she needed a favor, and tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

"You have to go by the bakery and schedule a cake tasting appointment," she says. It's Cartman who rolls his eyes at this.

"Yeah right, you were gonna do that," he shoots back.

"Well, now you're going by the bakery, so you can do it," Shelly raises her eyebrows, daring him to argue. God help everyone, it actually gets Cartman to back off. He just shoves his hands in the pockets of his khakis and heaves a great sigh.

"_Fine_," he concludes and tosses his head toward the door—the universal code for 'let's go'. Stan's not sure whether he's relieved or if he's staring deep into the fiery bowels of hell, but either way he finds himself following close on Cartman's tail.

"Bitch, don't fuckin' tell me what to do," he hears Cartman mutter. Stan knows he should probably jump to his sister's defense, but… she _is_ kind of a pushy bitch.

"Dude, chill," Stan settles on as he comes to stop beside Cartman's Hummer. "You're the one marrying her—no one's forcing you."

"Yeah right, Stan, what the fuck do you know?" Cartman challenges.

"Uh, you proposed?" Stan raises an eyebrow. He can't see Cartman now over the sheer girth of the car, but he takes the silence as a victory and smiles to himself before they get in the car and go. Cartman blasts his music, his terrible fucking excuse for music (honestly, Stan can't even piece together what the hell it is), as they barrel down the small streets of South Park toward the bakery on the other side of town.

The bell sounds cheerfully as Stan and Cartman walk into the little bakery, but no one's anywhere to be seen. Stan supposes Butters is working today—he and Kenny usually work holidays (except Christmas somehow, but Stan was trying not to think about Christmas right now), since they're not keen on celebrations and they're both the kind of guys who don't know what to do with themselves if they're not working. It takes a few moments, but Butters comes out from the kitchen, drying his hands on his apron before stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of the looming man beside Stan he once called his friend.

"H-hey there, fellas," he says with a tepid smile. Stan feels a shift in the room as Cartman makes the connection. He doesn't like the way his fat face splits open with a grin, or the way Butters shirks back into himself and stares at the ground. Stan gets the feeling that Butters feels a little naked without Kenny beside him. Not that he can blame him—Stan feels distant and out of place whenever he's away from Kyle.

Like now.

"Well-well, Butters," Cartman leans on the counter. "Long time no see."

"N-not an accident," Butters stammers through a frown, flicking at a pen on the counter. "Can I help you, fellas? I got a cake back there that needs icin'."

"Why I do believe you can, Butters," Cartman says rather imperiously as he takes to flipping through an album of sample cakes he finds on the counter. "Shelly and I will be sampling your finest cakes for our wedding."

Stan rolls his eyes and shakes his head at Butters, hopefully to convey just how retarded he thinks Cartman is being, but… there's something off. Butters is grabbing at the back of his neck and shifting back and forth on his feet. Stan knows Cartman makes Butters uncomfortable, yeah, but it's Cartman—he makes everyone feel uncomfortable.

"We-well, lemme find the book back—ah!" Butters yelps as Cartman snaps the sample book shut in his meaty fist. "I—it's back in the… in the kitchen. I'll be right back."

He trips over himself as he scrambles back into the kitchen, whining as he fights with the curtain separating the two rooms. Stan's not entirely fond of the way Cartman laughs as he opens the book again, or how he shakes his head, like he's just evoked a normal human reaction from Butters.

"He's such a little fucking pussy, I swear to God," Cartman laughs.

"Dude," Stan frowns. "You don't think it's weird that a grown man reacts like that to you?"

"It's fuckin' Butters, Stan," Cartman cocks an eyebrow and scoffs. "He's always been a pissy bitch about everything."

Stan rolls his eyes, mutters something along the lines of "suck a chode", and hops over the counter to follow Butters back into the kitchen. He's sitting on an oversized sack of flour, elbows on his knees and face in his hands as he breathes deeply, in and out. Stan recognizes it—it's Therapy 101. Feeling like you can't handle it? Take a few deep breaths and go from there.

Stan goes to sit beside him, running his clammy palms over his knees a few times before clearing his throat and resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Butters jumps, like he's expecting Stan to cut off his head, but soon calms himself enough to throw himself into a hug. That's the thing about Butters, though—he never waits for you to hug first. If he wants one, he'll get one, even if it's by his own initiation.

"Hey, dude," Stan gives a little laugh and pets his hand over Butters' fine blonde hair. "He's a fucking asshole, don't worry about it."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Butters shakes his head. "I counted to ten a few times—I think I'm okay now."

He feels Butters squirm a bit, jerk quickly in Stan's arms a few times before he pulls away and offers Stan a shaky smile. He's—he's twitching. Just barely, but his face is so close that Stan can see every single muscle move.

"Are you sure?" Stan asks, because Butters' eyes are big and glassy, like he's half a second away from crying. God, he doesn't think he can deal with crying right now, especially from Butters—Butters may be one of those touchy-feely guys, but he generally picks himself up by his bootstraps before he can get to crying good and proper.

So, Stan ducks forward and kisses him right on the lips in hopes that he'll at least be able to postpone the flow. Butters indulges for a second before pulling away, standing abruptly and rearranging his apron over his legs.

"Stan, ah-," Butters begins. "no offense, 'cause I'm awful touched that you wanna help, but… That's not gonna help me calm down."

"Oh," Stan feels himself color as he watches Butters clench and unclench his fists in rapid succession. "What, uh… sorry. I thought—"

"I-I know," Butters nods, much too jerkily. "Just—wou-would you let Kenny know? I-I don't wanna use my phone right now."

"Uh, yeah," Stan nods and pulls out his phone. "Just that you're freaking out, or what?"

"Tell him I saw Eric," Butters folds his arms over his chest and tries to crack his neck. "He'll get the jist from that."

"Ah," Stan nods, thumbs flying over his keys and sending the text without too much bother. "This happen often?"

Butters doesn't say anything apart from the word 'trigger', and just like that Stan understands. He knew Butters saw a therapist, but he didn't know what for. Hell, he still doesn't know what for, but Butters has triggers. Stan has triggers too. In a wonderful, blissful moment, Stan kind of feels like they're the same person, like they have the same problems, and it's that that makes him kiss him again. Not because he wants him to feel better, or to get his hands to stop tugging at his hair. He's found someone who's like him in this stupid shit town, and that's enough to make Stan want to kiss him all over the place.

"Jeez," Butters twitches away. "You're really starved for attention, aren't you."

There's no malice behind the words, but his usual mirth isn't exactly there either. It's flat, and Stan doesn't like it. His phone buzzes in his pocket again, this time with responses from both Kenny and Kyle. Kenny's conveys some urgency, that he's on his way _right absolutely now don't let Butters leave_, while Kyle's is simply a _bummer working talk later be strong_.

Stan rolls his eyes, wondering if Kyle would ever be as urgent as Kenny is, knowing Butters is in some sort of mental distress.

"Kenny's on his way," he says and tucks his phone back into his pocket. "Want me to make an appointment with Cartman?"

"Aigh, yeah," Butters shakes out his hands. "Yeah, that's… that's good. Tha-thanks, Stan."

Butters hands him a thick white binder and goes to stand in a corner. He's audibly counting back from thirty-six, by threes, and Stan's actually wondering just how crazy Butters is. He decides he'll worry about it later and just returns to the front room, where Cartman is hanging out on a little bench and playing Angry Birds on his iPhone.

"All right, dickbreath," Stan sighs and slams the binder down on the counter. "We'll pencil you two in and that'll be that."

"Where'd our friendly neighborhood faggot go?" Cartman asks, disinterested.

"Dude, lay the fuck off of him," Stan scowls. "You're getting married, okay? Act like a fucking adult."

"Me?" Cartman yelps, like it's the funniest thing in the world. "What the fuck about you? You moved back in with your _mom_, asshole."

"Suck my cock, I got kicked out of my apartment," Stan throws a pencil at his head. It bounces off Cartman's skull with a satisfying little '_thwap'_ before it clatters to the floor.

"Joke's on you, asshole," Cartman says, grunting as he bends over to pick the pencil up off of the floor. "Now I got your pencil."

"The last one left on earth, yeah," Stan rolls his eyes and grabs another pencil from a cup by the register. "Make an appointment so we can get the fuck out of here when Kenny gets here."

"Wait, Kenny's coming?" Cartman stills, looking legitimately concerned at this. Stan smirks and tucks the pencil behind his ear.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" he asks, leaning on the counter. "Don't tell me you're scared of Kenny."

"I'm not!" Cartman insists and fiddles with the pencil between his thick fingers. "Just, like… I don't want him and Butters fagging it up in front of me."

"Between them they've slept with more women than most people will in their lifetimes," Stan raises an eyebrow. "But yeah, they'll probably get their _fag _everywhere if they're in the same building together."

"I know, right!" Cartman nods, like he believes this is a legitimate concern. Stan rolls his eyes—he's deflecting. Cartman's always deflecting. Stan grabs the pencil again, just as he sees Kenny pull up outside and practically fly into the building.

"Incoming," Stan says just as Kenny wrenches open the door and locks his gaze on Cartman.

"You fucking piece of shit," he mutters and approaches him. His voice is low in his throat, which sends a chill down Stan's spine. Kenny's a few inches shorter than Cartman, and by no means as intimidating as far as size goes, but he actually looks really pissed. Stan hasn't seen him this pissed in a long time, actually.

"Hey, Ken," Stan greets, but Kenny doesn't hear him.

"Why the fucking fuck are you here?" he snaps instead, shoving Cartman as hard as he can. Cartman's got a low center of gravity, so he doesn't go down easily, but he's visibly shaken by Kenny's abrasiveness.

"Jesus Christ," Stan cocks a brow. "Go check on Butters. He's fuckin' upset. We'll be out of here in a second."

"Shit," Kenny deflates and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks back at Cartman and narrows his eyes. "If I catch you around him again, I will fucking end you, fatass."

"Kenny, I—"

"I'm fucking serious," Kenny warns. "Keep the fuck away from him."

And with that Kenny hops over the counter and heads into the back. Stan looks at Cartman, eyes wide, trying to puzzle out what's wrong in the way Kenny does, without using words, but it doesn't work. Stan, alas, is merely a mortal. What's more, he's a mortal that actually doesn't give two shits about why Cartman's so scared, and is just happy that he's shut the fuck up long enough for them to get this done.

They make the appointment and clear out quickly; Cartman, thankfully, remains silent all the way to the bowling alley. Stan texts Kyle the details of this anomaly, figuring he'd just like to know and not really expecting a response or anything… he just wants Kyle to reply back, to acknowledge him with something that's not short and calculated. He thinks maybe they should Skype, but Kyle's allegedly too busy. Plus, time differences…

Or something.

They get to the bowling alley and immediately find Randy at the bar, nursing a beer and already wearing a pair of ratty old bowling shoes. Stan and Cartman approach him, and Stan orders a beer before he does anything else. Good fucking Christ, he's going to need it.

They get their shoes and pick a lane, all within the span of Stan's first beer. It's the first one that makes the fact that he's here bearable. It'll be the second one that'll make him feel okay about it, and everything after that will be what will make him believe he's having fun.

He's been put in charge of score keeping… or, he's put himself in charge, since his dad doesn't like doing it and Cartman's going to cheat if he's left to it. Plus, it gives him a reason not to socialize… or put down his beer.

"So, how're you boys doing today?" Randy asks as he poises himself and rolls the first ball of the game. Stan rolls his eyes and leans on the table. It's a tired old tactic, trying to extract information while you're doing something else. It's not outright and touchy feely, like how moms get information, but Stan supposes that other dads are more suave in this area than his own.

His own dad actually fails pretty hard. And it's painful.

So, Stan just gives a noncommittal, heterosexual grunt, and downs a few mouthfuls of beer. Cartman starts talking about work, only a little at first, like he's unsure how interested Randy is, but continues when Randy starts asking questions for clarification and shit. Stan just tunes it all out, knocks back his beer and tries to project himself back into his bed, with Kyle wrapped around him and moving inside him. He shifts a little and tries to focus his energy elsewhere. The last thing he needs is to get a boner in the middle of a fucking bowling alley.

Stan bowls his first frame without much trouble. Randy's been taking him bowling since he was a kid; he doesn't like the sport particularly (because it's not a fucking sport, goddamn it), but he can do it well enough to dodge the 'let me show you how it's done' bullet. Cartman's not so lucky on that front—he's not a very graceful bowler, and Randy's already swooping in.

Stan hides s smirk behind the lip of his beer bottle. The poor bastard doesn't know what he's in for. Stan recognizes that maniacal laughter might be a little camp right now. He settles on a little chuckle that dies in his throat when he sees that…

That Cartman's not rolling his eyes, or looking back at Stan with a forsaken, pleading face. Actually, he looks like he's enjoying himself a little. What the fuck is this shit? Stan looks at the bottle in his hand, like the ol' girl's betrayed him with these beer goggles gone awry.

Cartman is enjoying time spent with Randy Marsh.

Gross.

Stan finishes off his beer and foes to get another from the bar. They're still in the middle of the lesson, Cartman and Randy, by the time Stan gets back. He takes a long pull off the top of the bottle and stares resignedly at the sight before him. Cartman's got his sleeves rolled up, listening intently to Randy's instructions. They look like… well, they don't look like father and son so much as they look like a phantom, an eerie reminder of games past, back when Stan thought his dad was the only hero he'd ever need. Then, of course, he'd reached the age of reason and that'd been that.

Holy shit.

Oh, holy shit, he hadn't meant to kill that beer that quickly. Shit.

He knows—fuck, he thinks he might be skirting dangerous territory. But… but, fuck it. He's around people, it's a social setting, and beer makes for a better bowler anyway, so… so fuck you. He feels like maybe he should wait a few minute before he gets another, though, which is why he's so unbearably happy that he remembered to bring his flask with him this morning.

He was going _wedding dress_ shopping, for shit's sake—how was he supposed to get through that sober? Sober-ish had been good enough, so fuck it. He'd drink however much rum and coke he wanted in the bathroom of David's Bridal—he's a fucking adult. He can make his own decisions.

He sits back down just in time to mark Cartman's first frame a meager three, followed by an unreasonably satisfying one. He's getting petty and mean, which isn't great, but Kyle hasn't been answering him today and he's probably annoyed and this is _Cartman_, okay? He deserves some petty rudeness sometimes.

Or all the times.

Whatever.

Randy blows through his turn again, and so does Stan, and soon Randy's back to coaching Cartman again. Stan rolls his eyes and decides that it's been long enough. He goes to get another beer, glaring at the bartender who's looking at him like he's a horrible fucking human for being on his fourth beer already. Fuck this guy, he doesn't know what Stan's dealing with right now. All Stan wants to do is crawl up under a chair and drink until the good feelings come back.

"All right, boys," Randy announces when Stan gets back. "I'm gonna get us some pizza. Stan, are you a vegetarian this week?"

"Ha-ha," Stan glowers and scratches at his nose with his middle finger. There's an easy dick joke in there somewhere that Stan's too lazy to make… not that his dad needs to know how much dick he's sucked in the last couple weeks anyway. Not because of the whole gay thing, but because, y'know…

It's a lot of dick.

"What the fuck's your problem?"

Stan's brought out of the wonderful land of his brain, where there's dick-sucking and butt-fucking abound, back into the bowling alley, where Cartman is leaning over the score board and looking at Stan like he's the scum of the earth or something.

"Nothing," Stan mumbles and runs a hand over his face. "Having fun crawling up my dad's ass?"

"Dude, the fuck is your deal with your dad?" Cartman asks and takes a seat beside him. "He's just trying to spend time with you."

Stan looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. Cartman looks kind of sincere and it's unsettling. It's like… something else that's super unsettling.

Stan doesn't know—his brain's not connecting things right now.

"He's such a fucking tool," Stan settles on saying. "How—how the fuck are you not seeing that?"

"He's trying to spend time with you," Cartman frowns and fiddles with the wristband of his watch. "That's way cooler than you think it is."

Stan gives him what he hopes is an intimidating enough glower before downing the rest of his beer and slamming the bottle down on the table beside him with finality. He swipes the back of his hand over his lip, because he knows he missed the last little bit that was in the bottle and he doesn't want to look like a total slobbering drunk right now. He does have some semblance of dignity left.

Maybe.

He swears he feels his phone buzz in his pocket, whips it out because _Kyle_, but there's not a missed message to be found. Okay, he's fucking had it now. He stands up a little too fast, and Cartman snatches him by the back of the shirt to make sure he doesn't fall, and says that he. will be _back_. in a _minute._

He dials Kyle on the way over to the exit and stands just outside the exit until he hears a tired, run down "hey, what's up" on the other end of the line.

"Kyyle," Stan hears himself drawl through a smile. He likes hearing Kyle's voice, even if it's all worn out like that.

"Dude, I just got home," Kyle yawns. "Can I call you after I nap or some shit?"

"But we're already talking now," Stan pouts. "I miss you."

"You too, dude," Kyle gives a tired laugh. "I just need some fucking sleep. I'll call you later."

"Aw, come on," Stan grins and leans against the brick wall beside him. "Don't send me back—" he pauses, trying to think of the word he's meaning to use "—back into the trenches."

"Fucking Christ," Kyle sighs. "Dude, I will call you later, all right? Just go hang with your fucking dad. He obviously wants to spend time with you. God for-fucking-bid you indulge him for a few hours."

"Fuck him!" Stan snaps. "What the fuck is with everyone, huh? He's an asshole. You know this."

"Yeah, I know that, but fuck," Kyle groans. "Maybe you'd stop feeling like shit if you returned the effort."

"Maybe _you'd_ stop feeling like shit if _you_ returned the effort," Stan counters, even though he's pretty sure it doesn't make as much sense as he wants it to. He can _hear_ Kyle roll his eyes from here.

"Okay, yeah, you're drunk," he says. "Give the phone to Cartman for a sec."

"No, why?" Stan demands.

"Because I want to tell him something," Kyle replies calmly.

"You won't talk to me, but you'll talk to fucking Cartman?" Stan feels his temper rise. "Nice, dude. Really fucking nice."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Kyle asks.

"I just wanna talk to you!" Stan whines, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old being denied his favorite toy.

"Why?" Kyle snaps, angry now. "Because we fucked?"

Stan pauses, looking down at the ridiculous bowling shoes on his feet and biting into one of his fingernails.

"Maybe."

"The thing that wasn't supposed to change anything," Kyle says. "That's what's making you act like a needy fucking lunatic?"

"I'm not needy, asshole!" Stan shouts. "I just fucking miss you, okay? My life sucks without you here."

"Yeah, well we're not fucking married, Stan!" Kyle yells back. "What, you don't want to be alone? Well, you fucking are right now, so put on your fucking big boy pants and deal with it."

Stan feels a vague feeling of upset bubble up in his stomach, but he's too gone to deal with it.

"Go fuck yourself, Kyle!" he just shoots back. "Sorry I fucking love you and want to talk to you, you fucking piece of shit."

There's a moment of silence before Kyle's voice sounds in Stan's ear again.

"Fuck you, dude," is all he says. "Just… fuck you."

He hangs up, leaving Stan reeling. Kyle hasn't hung up on him since they were little, since before Stan got sent to the hospital. He doesn't… he doesn't like when Kyle yells at him. Kyle yells at other people—Stan's generally safe unless he's being a righteous asshole. He's almost certain he wasn't being an asshole, but he's not actually one hundred percent sure.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and goes back into the building. Randy and Cartman are stuffing their faces, going back and forth and looking like they're having a pretty decent time. Stan pauses just short of them seeing him and grabs for the flask in his jacket pocket. He's got an unsettling feeling in his stomach, which is probably just because he was standing out in the cold talking to his asshole friend for way too long. He needs the heat back again. He tips back what's left in his flask and tucks the empty vessel back into his pocket.

His belly is instantly warmed.

So why does he still feel so cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Quick update is quick. I wanted to get this chapter done before I'm consumed by finals this weekendupcoming week x_x**

**Thank you for reading and offering feedback! It brought sunshine to my yucky, rainy week. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kyle knows that he feels bad for yelling at Stan. He doesn't exactly have time to feel bad about it, though, since he's got way too much to do with dealing with the rental agency, subletting, putting most of his shit in storage, making sure the guys at work don't drown, and all the other varying things that make being an adult especially fucking terrible.

The plane ride home is five hours long; he sleeps the whole way through and it's the most sleep he's gotten in the last week he's been away from South Park. Truth be told, he kind of wishes he'd brought Stan with him, if only because it would've been nice to have someone to come home to that wasn't Brian, because Brian wears backwards baseball caps and is loud and obnoxious and even if he's an okay roommate most of the time, he's not Stan.

No one is.

"Jesus H. Christ, you look like shit," Ike says as Kyle approaches him in the parking lot. Kyle's already bummed that he wasted a week of Ike time—the last thing he needs right now is Ike harping on him and making this an unpleasant ride back to South Park.

"Behold," is all he says as he gets into the car and tosses his bag in the backseat. "The life of an adult. I don't sleep, I don't eat, I just look like shit."

"Well, gee," Ike says lightly. "Welcome the fuck home."

Kyle flips him off and sinks low in his seat as Ike starts driving. Goddamn, he's so fucking tired. Even if he'd been asleep for fifteen hours, he still thinks he'd be this tired. That's what a shitton of sleep deprivation does, though, so he figures he'll go home and crash and he'll deal with everything else from there.

"You sure you're okay?" Ike asks, and it's that stupid concerned voice that Kyle doesn't like because that means he's going to have to be honest now, because it's Ike and Kyle actually doesn't really lie to Ike.

"I'm just fuckin' tired, dude," he punctuates with a yawn. "Too much work, too much shit… just wanna relax and apparently I'm not allowed to do that."

"Well, you're back, so," Ike leads in. "I dunno, maybe Stan can help you take the edge off."

"Ike," Kyle warns.

"With sex."

"I got it!" Kyle exclaims. "Jesus, dude. He's probably still pissed at me anyway, so good fucking luck there."

"Pissed at you?" Ike's face falls into a frown. "Dude, why would he be pissed at you?"

"Ugh, he was being a needy cock the other day," Kyle yawns again.

"Oh no," Ike groans and slumps in his seat. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do shit!" Kyle exclaims and then remembers that, yeah, maybe he did. But he was fucking tired, okay? And Stan was already fall-down drunk by the time he called and Jesus Christ, what's Kyle supposed to do? Despite what he'd like everyone to think, he _is _only human, for shit's sake. He can't talk to Stan every fucking time he's having a crisis.

Except he's supposed to take Stan's crises seriously. Yeah, he's been doing better and everything, and he's nowhere as bad as he was when they were kids, but it's still something he's supposed to be keeping tabs on, and it's definitely something he's not supposed to be making worse.

"Fuck," Kyle sighs now, running his fingers through his hair. "Fuck, I think I fucked up."

"What'd you do?" Ike presses again.

"I may've yelled at him?" Kyle offers, like he's not sure (even if he knows that's exactly what happened), and rolls his eyes when Ike turns and glares at him. "Dude, none of your fucking business, okay?"

"The fuck it's not," Ike snaps, then backs off a bit when he realizes he's getting too caught up in everything. "I've known him as long as I've known you, okay? I don't want you to fuck up whatever this thing is you guys are doing and never talk to him again."

"Dude, I didn't fuck up that bad," Kyle shakes his head and props his feet up on the dashboard, even though he knows it kind of bugs his dad that he does it still. Not like he has to know, right?

"Have you talked to him since?" Ike poses.

"No, but that's good," Kyle snorts. "If he's pissed at me, he's usually not shy about letting me know."

And it's true. Over the years, the only times Stan's been seriously mad at him have always been accented by angry, drunken voicemails about what a donkey's dick he's being and why Stan's right and Kyle's wrong.

It's good that he hasn't heard anything from Stan, which is why he hasn't been too worried.

Then again, not hearing anything could, on the flip side, be the actual worst thing that could possibly happen.

"You haven't heard anything, have you?" Kyle asks, knowing he's being a little dramatic in his thought process. Stan has not drunk himself into a coma or killed himself or anything of the sort, Kyle; you're overreacting.

"About Stan?" Ike asks. "No. Dude, if you're worried, why don't you call him?"

"Because," Kyle whines and sinks lower in his seat. "He's been acting really weird since we fucked and I'm—"

"Whoa, dude!" Ike interjects, looking over at Kyle now with his eyebrows in his hairline and a general air of shock on his face. "You fucked? Like… dick-in-ass fucked?"

"Wha—_yes_," Kyle screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. God, why is he talking to his little brother about this?

"He let you put your dick in his ass?" Ike laughs. "And you yelled at him? You're such a fuckhead."

"We're done talking," Kyle insists and turns on the radio. He needs to find something that'll drown out Ike's stupid questions. They don't really talk for the rest of the ride home, which Kyle doesn't mind because talking is just kind of taxing when you do it all the time, but Ike looks like he's itching to say more.

When they get back, Kyle grabs his shit and goes in the house, because he wasn't going to talk about it in the car and he's sure as shit not going to talk about it now. His parents are on the couch, watching TV, and Kyle kind of stops when he sees it. His dad's got his arm around his mom and they both look like they haven't been out of the house all day.

In the last twenty-three years, Kyle can count on his fingers the number of times he's seen his parents be… well, cuddly. His mom's the one that's squicked by it, usually, but there she is, tucked under his dad's arm and watching what looks to be an old episode of Lost.

"Hi, bubbeleh," his mom greets him warmly. "How was your flight?"

"Fine," Kyle says distantly. She seems so much better like this, and Kyle gets to wondering if the whole affection thing doesn't have some merit behind it. "Slept most of the way."

"That's good," his mom says. "Come and watch with us."

"No, I actually," Kyle swallows, trying to think of a good excuse. "I'm actually going over to help Kenny with his computer, so I'll be back later."

"Go?" his dad asks, puzzled. "You just got here."

"I know," Kyle feels his gut bunch up when both his parents look at him like they're worried he's on drugs or something. He hates that he can manage to feel guilty when he hasn't done anything wrong. Though, he does suppose he should feel guilty about Stan.

Fuck.

He grabs the keys from Ike and leaves without so much as another word. He knows he should go see Stan, but that little nagging feeling in his stomach has turned into full-blown nausea, because what if he goes to see him and he's, like, dead in a bathtub or something?

He knows Sharon wouldn't ever let that happen, yeah, but _gah!_—he feels a wave of nervous energy twitch throughout his body, and for a moment he knows he looks like a crazy person. Fuck, maybe he is a crazy person.

He has to go talk to Kenny. If anyone knows how to deal with crazy people, it's Kenny.

Someone's moving out when Kyle gets to Kenny's apartment. Kyle moves to keep the door open while a couple of burly guys carry a couch out to the moving van on the street and sneaks into the building when they're out. He bounds up to Kenny's and Butters' apartment and knocks, hoping they're there (because if they're not, Kyle feels a little like he may punch something).

Kyle doesn't know why he's surprised when Kenny answers the door in nothing more than a pair of Batman boxers. He looks at Kyle like he's just seen a ghost.

"'the fuck?" Kenny's eyebrows screw up high on his forehead. "How'd you get in?"

"Can I come in?" Kyle just shakes his head and asks. "I'm having, like… issues, or whatever."

Kenny sighs and leans against the door, letting Kyle pass but also conveying how much of an inconvenience this is by tossing out a grumpy, "Man, there'd better be blood coming out of your fucking dick."

Kyle's about to snap at him, but then he notices Butters on the couch, also in his underwear (and a t-shirt, thank god), and wrapped up in an old quilt thing. He doesn't seem to have noticed Kyle's presence, just keeps watching the TV rather morosely. Kyle wants to ask Kenny about it, but Kenny's over in the little kitchen area, pulling a couple of cans of Tab out of the fridge and offering one to Kyle.

"So what're these issues that're so fucking important you couldn't even call me before you just barged right on up here?" Kenny asks.

"Dude, why're you being a dick?" Kyle frowns and opens his soda.

"Because I have, like, zero time for your shit, dude," Kenny says very frankly and looks over at Butters. There's a look of abject helplessness on his face for about a split second before he snaps out of it and looks back at Kyle.

"Dude," Kyle laughs a little. "Maybe you should talk about what's bugging you."

"Fuck you," Kenny tosses out, looking much too tired to actually mean it, and then drops his voice so Kyle can barely hear him. "He saw Cartman the other day and it kind of fucked him up."

"Cartman did that?" Kyle asks, pointing over at Butters only to realize that he probably shouldn't. Pointing is rude, especially when who you're pointing at is right fucking there.

"Yeah, dude," Kenny sighs and leans against the fridge. "Cartman always does this. And I don't know how many times I have to kick his ass before he leaves Butters the fuck alone."

"Dude, have you _actually_ beaten his ass before?" Kyle cocks an eyebrow, and Kenny just smirks into his soda, like he's reliving the fondest of memories.

"Remember when he got his jaw wired shut, and he told everyone it was so he could lose weight for graduation pictures?" he asks.

"Yeah?" Kyle nods carefully, not entirely sure he's going to like the follow up.

"I may've actually broken his jaw," Kenny says, and when Kyle is about to launch into a full-scale reprimand he jumps into an explanation. "Dude, Butters had _just_ been diagnosed, all right? So he goes to tell Cartman and this fucker starts fucking _railing_ on him, talking about how mental disorders aren't fucking real and shit, that Butters needs to just suck it up and deal with his problems like everyone else, and then, on top of fucking everything, says—"

"You're a fucking lunatic like your mom and cocksucking faggot like your dad, so at least we know you're not a bastard too," Butters finishes from his place on the couch, and Kenny makes a gesture with his hand as though he's indicating 'yes, this exactly'. Butters makes no other indication that he's been listening, just sort of tips over on the couch and keeps watching TV. Kenny sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

"Anyway," he mutters. "I couldn't let him get away with that, y'know? Nobody fucks with my man."

"So you broke his jaw," Kyle reiterates, hoping Kenny knows how stupid that sounds. "I mean, I know you're all fucking chivalrous or noble or whatever the fuck you wanna call it—"

"Are you shitting me?" Kenny laughs now. "I didn't beat him up for Butters, I fucked him up because he fucking deserved it… And also, nobody puts Baby in a corner."

"Right, but if he'd said that, and you guys hadn't been… you were fucking by that point, right?" Kenny nods. "Okay, if you hadn't been fucking, would you've done it?"

Kenny rolls his eyes and says, "No, probably not, but… dude, when you," he drops his voice. "When you're enough of a nutjob, you'll do all sorts of shit when someone you love that much gets that hurt."

"You're fucking insane," Kyle agrees. Kenny flips him off and goes back over to the couch, sitting down and pulling Butters up so he can hug him close. Kyle's not dumb—he knows this is exactly what he saw his parents doing earlier, that this is supposed to be the Universe's way of telling him what love is and how you're supposed to treat someone you love.

Fuck it, he's just not entirely sure he has the emotional capacity to be this person for Stan.

Like Kenny, right? Not only is Kenny somehow miraculously emotionally available, but somehow he managed to take on medical responsibility for Butters too. There's a packet of papers stuck by industrial-strength magnet to their fridge: phone numbers, medications, allergies, game plans and instructions for worst-case scenarios (should Butters fly off the handle into full mania, or sink deeper into the recesses of depression). There're notes all over this thing, some written on bright post-its in Butters' cramped loopy scrawl, others directly on the page in Kenny's untidy chicken scratch, like things to remember when such-and-such happens, or new situations entirely.

Kyle just doesn't understand why they're allowed to be so functional when they're both so obviously nuts.

He's about to walk away, to go join them in front of the TV for a bit, when he notices the large, lined post-it stuck on the final page of the packet. It's a list of people, men and women, written in both Kenny's and Butters' handwritings, like it's something they keep adding to as time goes on. There are some celebrities, but mostly these are people Kyle knows. His and Stan's names are somewhere near the middle-top of the list, Stan's name clearly written by Butters and Kyle's by Kenny.

"Hey, why's there a list of people on your fridge?" Kyle finds himself asking.

"Why're you poking around on our fridge?" Kenny calls back.

"As the…" Kyle counts down the people on the list. "As the sixth person listed, I think I reserve the right to know what exactly I'm being listed for."

"Sex," is all Butters says before he yawns and buries his face in his quilt. Kyle just laughs, because of course they'd have something like this.

"I hate to break it to you, boys, but you've never had sex with me," he says and walks over toward them, coming close but not actually making a move to join them fully.

"No, thank god," Kenny mutters and kisses the top of Butters' head. "It's our 'free pass' list."

Kyle pauses for a few moments before he asks, "Is that exactly what it sounds like?"

"We-well, I get kinda slutty when I'm manic," Butters yawns again. "So we had t'make a list of people it's okay for us to sleep with. 's'long as we're honest, it's no big deal."

"Gotta keep tabs on it," Kenny nods. Kyle snorts and goes to look back at it—sure enough, there are tally marks next to a few names. Tweek's got a few ticks, Bebe's got way more than anyone, and—

"Wait, what the fuck," Kyle frowns. "Why the fuck is there a tick mark next to Stan?"

Maybe they meant to tick off Zoe Saldana, who's listed just above him.

"Oh yeah," he just hears Butters laugh. "That happened." Kyle looks over just in time to see Kenny clap his hand over Butters' mouth. Kenny's wearing his guilty face, the one he had that one time he accidentally broke Kyle's graphing calculator in senior year, and it makes Kyle's blood run cold.

"What?" he asks, and he knows his voice is all soft and carefully measured because he's trying not to shout or anything, but… what? His confusion only seems to make Kenny look guiltier.

Oh god.

"You… with Stan?" he can't get his head around it. What they did, had done, could have done… not one iota of it connects in Kyle's brain. He supposes he'd be able to forgive a hand job or something, because Kyle had at least done that much and, what, like hand jobs fucking count for anything ever, right?

Only he knows Kenny and Butters know that and wouldn't tick Stan off for anything like that.

"Dude," Kenny pushes himself off of the couch and walks back over to Kyle. "Don't flip out, okay?"

Shit. This didn't even have the decency of having happened before Kyle and Stan decided to start fucking. Fantastic.

"Why would I flip out?" Kyle asks, making sure his sarcasm is apparent. He doesn't want to make a scene or anything, or make it so Butters descends into an episode or something, but god_damn_. "Apparently there's just been wild fucking sex parties happening without my knowledge. That's cool. Cooler than cool, you fucking asshole."

"Kyle," Kenny warns as Butters stands up now, coming over to make sure nothing too sinister is going down. Even with the quilt draped over his shoulders and the sad disposition, Kyle knows that if he fucks with Kenny, he's going to be in a world of hurt.

"Which one of you was it?" Kyle asks, gaze set firm on the both of them. They exchange a rather incriminating look, and Kyle immediately feels himself deflate. "God, it was both of you? What the _fuck, _guys?"

"He was lookin' so sad, Kyle," Butters cocks his head, trying desperately to explain. "A-an' it was _Christmas_ an' no one should look that sad on _Christmas_—"

"You fucked my—" he catches himself mid-shout when Kenny and Butters give him looks as though to say, 'your what, Kyle?', before he continues with an angry "—on fucking _Christmas_?"

Kenny and Butters look at each other again, looking this time like they're trying not to laugh, and Kyle narrows his eyes.

"Oh, okay," he nods. "I get it, 'fucking Christmas', very mature, you fucking _dicks_!"

"Why the fuck are you mad at us?" Kenny asks, laughing now. "He's not your boyfriend, you're not exclusive, no parties were forced… what's your problem?"

Kyle's about to yell again, but comes up short. Kenny's right—using those facts and those alone, he really shouldn't be upset, but there he is… all upset and shit.

"Dude, you fucked Stan!" he tries to argue.

"Actually," Butters clears his throat a little and gives a sheepish grin. "That was me."

"Oh, come the fuck on!" Kyle shouts and fists his fingers in his hair.

"Will you cool it?" Kenny socks him on the shoulder. "We have neighbors, asshole."

"What the fuck is he doing over here fucking around with you two when he—" he stops. Shit, that was when they'd had the scare with his mom. Stan had mentioned that Christmas had been pretty bad… obviously, not as bad as he led Kyle to believe.

Great. If he can't be upset about him cheating, he can at least be upset about the fact that Stan kind of lied to him.

"That fucker," he finds himself muttering.

"Whoa, whoa," Kenny holds up his hands. "Dude, why the fuck are you mad at him now? He didn't do anything wrong. Yeah, he didn't tell you, but it's not like he's contractually obligated to disclose every last bit of his life to you."

It's the truth, which is probably what makes it so hard to hear. Yeah, Stan doesn't have to tell him everything, but he does anyway, and that's what makes what they have together so much better. He likes that he and Stan know useless things about each other, and it really bothers him that, if this had happened even a month ago, Kyle would've thought it was funny and totally jumped on the opportunity to rag on him endlessly.

Sleeping together wasn't supposed to change anything.

So of course it changed everything.

"I'm such an asshole," Kyle deflates and rubs a hand over his face.

"Yes!" Kenny exclaims, like he's just gotten Kyle to start speaking properly after months of fruitless attempts. It's no one's fault but Kyle's that Stan ended up there. He could've been more understanding, he could've gone back to Stan's the moment he found out his mom was okay, he could've been sympathetic on the phone the other day, and instead he was just the very model of jackass.

"Fuck it," Kyle sighs and leans back against the counter. "Why wouldn't he pick you two over me."

"Uh, he fucking loves you, dude," Kenny's face screws up a little bit, like Kyle's just confessed to thinking rabbits lay eggs or something. "I swear, your guys' self esteem issues are retarded. Let me explain something to you: I love Butters. I could sleep with you, it could be the best fucking sex of my life, and it wouldn't change a goddamned thing, right? Stan. Loves. You. You guys are fucking ridiculous."

Were Kyle a more melodramatic fellow, he imagines he'd be writhing on the floor, soliloquizing about his hardened heart and its now gelatinous state or some shit. Stan'd probably do something like that.

Stan. He has to see Stan, to apologize, to yell at him, to kiss him, to tackle him and tell him he's a son of a bitch for not telling Kyle he's a cheating dickhead. Even if he didn't technically cheat. Whatever.

"Shit," Kyle sighs and runs both hands through his hair now. "Shit, I've gotta go. I'll see you guys later."

Kyle doesn't wait around for Kenny to shoo him, or for Butters to make sure he's okay before he leaves. He's a dick, Stan's a dick… they're both big fucking hard-ons who don't deserve happiness because they're too emotionally retarded for anything but pain and suffering and misery. This. God, this whole thing…

This whole thing was a fucking mistake. Kyle hates to admit it, but as he speeds away from the apartment building toward Stan's he can't help but think of how much better things would be if he'd just kept his goddamned hands to himself. This has actually done nothing but complicate his life, which is not what he wanted. He wanted this thing with Stan to be fun, because they have fun doing just about everything else, right?

And it's fun while they're doing it. It's just the inbetweens that are proving to be awful. As much as he'd like to spend every last of his living moments moving inside Stan (or, he decided a few nights ago mid-jerk off, have Stan moving inside him), he can't help but think it'd be a little counterproductive to say the least.

He gets to Stan's and is a little relieved to see that his is the only car in the driveway. He doesn't think he's about to break off whatever this is, but if that's what ends up happening he's eternally grateful that he doesn't have to do it with other people in the house.

He opens the door and goes inside, because he hasn't knocked since the sixth grade and he's not about to start again, thank you. He calls through the house a few times, and when Stan doesn't answer determines that he's either asleep, watching TV in the basement, or dicking around on his laptop in his room and he's got the volume up way too high on his ridiculous headphones.

He checks the basement first (empty), before going upstairs to knock on Stan's door. There's no answer, but that's typical, so he doesn't feel too bad about opening the door without being invited in.

Only there's no Stan to be seen. There's an empty bottle of Kraken rum (which Kyle has never understood how Stan keeps down, but okay) next to his laptop, which is on and open, so he must not have gone too far too long ago.

"Stan?" he calls again, and this time he hears a groan coming from the bathroom. "Shit," he mutters and goes to open the bathroom door. He hits something and immediately hopes to god it's not Stan, but the quick whimper and forlorn bark tells him that it's just Trapper.

"Come on, dude," Kyle sighs and reaches around to push him out of the way. Thankfully, he complies and Kyle's able to get into the bathroom without any more trouble.

The smell of vomit hits his nose immediately, and he silently thanks whatever evolutionary miracle at work that he doesn't have a weak constitution when it comes to this kind of thing. Stan's entire head is in the toilet bowl, and even though he looks pained and fucking awful, he still lifts a hand in greeting. Trapper and Hawkeye are both with him, Trapper looking a little antsy now that he's been moved and Hawkeye sitting firmly beside him and dutifully licking at a bit of Stan's exposed arm.

Well, at least this part of their friendship hasn't changed. Except the dogs.

The dogs are definitely new.

"Fuck, dude," Kyle says softly and crouches beside Stan, shooing Hawkeye back so he can get close. Stan's slobber-covered arm is sort of blocking his face, but Kyle can tell he's sallow and clammy and looking like he's been poisoned… which is technically exactly what's happened when you make your way through a lot of alcohol in such a short amount of time, but he can't think about it right now. He just brings a hand up to run through Stan's greasy hair and sighs. If he says anything about Kenny and Butters, or how they're not working, he will actually win Asshole of the Year and, while prestigious, it's not the kind of thing Kyle wants to be associated with right now.

"How long've you been in here?" he asks instead. Stan moans in response and brings his hand up to flush the toilet before he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks over at Kyle. The whites of his eyes are beet red, his skin is all sickly looking, and he doesn't look like he's shaved or showered in at _least_ a few days.

"I think I need to lay down," is all that he says, and Kyle winces.

"I think you need to shower, dude," he replies and brings a hand up to cup at Stan's cheek. He's cold and sweaty, and Kyle's deathly afraid for about half a second that he's dying.

"No, I don't want to," Stan throws his arm off and attempts to stand, which makes Trapper bark again, but he can't and it makes Kyle's heart hurt.

"Come on, dude, let me help you," he says.

"No!" Stan attempts to wriggle away, but Kyle moves to grab his wrist and just looks him directly in the eye.

"Stan," he says softly, silently pleading, and that's what seems to get Stan to stop struggling. He watches as Stan's face screws up, and even catches him as he flops forward and starts crying into his chest. Suddenly he's not so preoccupied with Stan fucking Butters and Kenny, or how irritated and tired he's been for the last, like, week… all he can think about is holding Stan until he stops crying. He kisses Stan in his grimy hair, all over his sweaty, greasy face, and tries to look around for something, anything, he can use to mop up Stan's tears that isn't his shirt.

"I'm such a shithead," Stan moans into Kyle's shoulder. "I'm—I'm sorry I'm so goddamn fucking shitty."

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" Kyle asks, because he can't possibly know the nature of Kyle's thoughts while he was on his way over here. So he pets his hand over Stan's hair and prays he hasn't gained clairvoyance since he's last seen him.

"I kept bugging you," Stan sniffs. "And I pissed you off because I'm a fucking idiot and now you _hate_ me—"

"I don't hate you," Kyle reassures him, because it's true. "Dude, how could I hate you? You're my best friend."

"Because I'm a fuck up," Stan sniffles.

"Doesn't mean I don't love you," Kyle responds before he can really think it through. It feels strange, being this loving and supportive when all he really wants to ask is how much Stan's had, how long it's been since he's showered, been outside, spoken to anyone, and give him shit for backsliding when he's better than this. He's so much better than this.

"You don't have to pity me, okay?" Stan sniffs and tries to sit up, but he gets dizzy and ends up with his head in the toilet again, convulsing until there's nothing left for him to barf up. Kyle rubs his hand over the broad expanse of his back and mutters stupidly comforting things like, "let it all out" or "you're okay" and he sort of hates himself for it.

"God, what the fuck is with you?" Stan groans, his voice echoing off of the porcelain as he flushes again.

"What're you talking about?" Kyle asks. "I'm comforting you."

"Fuck you!" Stan shouts then, shoving at Kyle and making Hawkeye bark this time. He's older, doesn't like expending energy when he doesn't have to, and Kyle kind of wonders if he's attempting to come to Kyle's defense or something. Stan doesn't pay any attention to this, of course, just starts laying into Kyle. He keeps on, "If I wanted comfort I'd be with my mom, or Butters, or Kenny, but you… you're supposed to be mad at me, Kyle. Just act normal, Jesus!"

"You _want_ me to be mad at you?" Kyle raises an eyebrow. He knows it's probably just Stan being a drunken idiot, equates it to Kenny saying "I want you to hit me as hard as you can" when he gets wasted, but Kyle is kind of mad right now. And he has no problem with giving Stan exactly what he wants, if indeed that's what he wants.

"You're such a piece of shit liar if you tell me you're not fucking ready to yell at me right now, Broflovski," Stan narrows his eyes, and even though he's swaying back and forth Kyle accepts the challenge.

"All right, I am mad," he concedes. "You're serious right now? I fucking snapped at you once, over the phone, and I come home three fucking days later and you've got _alcohol poisoning_? So instead of assuming I'm the one with the problem, and I am because _I_ yelled at _you_, you just decided to come home and… what, drink yourself to death? Because I was a dick to you? Stan, of all the people I've ever been a dick to, you're the only one I actually don't want dead in a ditch."

"Yes," Stan raises a drunken hand in victory. "Tell me what a fuck-up piece of shit horrible person I am so I can sleep soundly."

"Jesus, Stan," Kyle grabs his wrist and pulls his hand back down. He knows he's still shouting, but he can't help the onslaught of word vomit that continues to pour out of him, "You think I'm mad because you're a fuck-up? Because you're _not_ a fuck-up, or a piece of shit, and you're not a horrible person. I'm mad because you let yourself think you are, and when you let yourself think that you just fucking sit there and destroy yourself."

"Don't lie—"

"I'm not lying, asshole!" Kyle snaps. "You _know _me; if I thought you were a fuck up or a bad person I would've told you a long time ago. Dude, you…" he falters, because his voice gets caught in his throat just like it used to when he was a kid and his feelings were too overwhelming to keep shoved deep down inside him, but he continues anyway, softer this time.

"You never cease to amaze me, okay?" he takes one of Stan's hands in both of his before he goes on. "You just care so much about everyone and everything, and yeah, you're a cynical asshole and everything, but I saw you at work with those kids, dude. You love working with them and helping them, I know you do. You wouldn't still be doing it if you didn't; and you're helping Shelly with her wedding stuff even though I know you want to tell her to fuck off, because you care about her and you actually want her to have a nice wedding; and you adopt dogs that need homes, even if you know it'll get you evicted; and you've never given up on me, even when I'm a total asshole to you. So don't tell me you're a fuck-up, because fuck-ups don't care about anyone half as much as you care about everyone. You're so… so much better than the way you treat yourself and I wish—you cared about yourself as much as you care about everyone else, or—_goddamn_, this is fucking gay. You can't let anyone know I said this, okay?"

Stan nods, looking a little dazed, and it occurs to Kyle that it's entirely possible that Stan's blacked out and won't remember any of this when he sobers up. But he's gotten this far, so he figures he might as well finish, for his sake at least.

"Dude," he begins on a shaky intake of breath. "I'm fucking mad because if you loved yourself even a fraction of how much I love you, you wouldn't treat yourself this way."

Stan's mouth is hanging open a little as he looks at Kyle with an unreadable expression, and if Kyle hadn't just seen him barf he'd kiss him. So instead he just kisses him on the top of his head again before pulling back and offering him a smile. He really has to do this verbal purging thing more often, because damn… he feels so much better.

"Can you stand?" he asks, and Stan snorts and shakes his head. Kyle nods, and continues, "So if I put you in the shower you wouldn't be able to wash yourself up?"

"Fuck it, I'm not a wizard," Stan outright laughs that time, and it makes Kyle happier than anything. He stands and holds out his hands.

"If you're not blacked out, promise me you'll pretend you were," he says and signals for Stan to grab onto him. He hoists Stan to his feet and makes him wash out his mouth ("because the acid from your puke is going to rot your teeth out, dickhead") before helping him walk back to his room. He doesn't bother helping him change or anything, since he'll just wake up in a little while, considerably more sober, and go get clean then. Instead, he just plops Stan down on his bed, tucks his laptop away and grabs the empty bottle of Kraken so he can dispose of it and Stan can lay down undisturbed.

"Hey," Stan blindly grabs for him as he moves toward the door. "Man who loves me."

Kyle's going to regret that whole thing, isn't he.

"Yes, man I am beginning to have second thoughts about," Kyle raises his eyebrow in response, hand at the ready on the doorknob.

"Stay with me?" he asks, and it's totally pathetic, but also impossible to resist at the moment. Kyle sighs and says that he'll be back in a minute, that he needs to toss the bottle and get Stan some water. When he gets back, Stan's already passed out, so he sets the water on the nightstand, moves the trashcan over to the side of the bed (just in case), and crawls into bed beside the total mess of a human being he calls his best friend. He pets Stan's hair again, grimacing when his fingers come up shiny and wiping them on Stan's sweats.

He decides all that matters, for now, is that Stan's alive and okay and knows just how much Kyle loves him. Kyle knows the other stuff's not going away, but they'll talk about how fucked up they are and all that shit later.

When the time is right.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi guys. I'm so sorry for the ridiculously long wait between these two chapters. I have excuses (finishing finals, being on spring break, etc.) but I did NOT forget about this fic in the midst of things. <strong>

**So, I thank you for your patience, your kind words, and your existence (because you are all, as I say time and time again, fabulous). **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

For a while, Stan's pretty sure someone replaced his insides with a portal into the deepest recesses of Hell.

Then he remembers he's been doing nothing but drinking in his room for about three days straight, and what he's been drinking is in no way liver-friendly. He recalls getting sick last night, and knows he made a few empty promises to God about not drinking anymore when he thought he was going to die with nothing but the company of his dogs to ease him into the next life.

Stan's eyes shoot open when he realizes that that didn't happen, that he's alive, and the hallucination he had of Kyle saying all those nice things to him probably wasn't a hallucination at all. Normally his hallucinations have a lot more kinky shit going on in them, and as weird and out of place as it is for Kyle to express his emotions, Stan would hardly call it a kink.

He rolls over, groaning at the pain pulling behind his eyes, and sees Kyle snoozing soundly beside him. If he didn't have such a piss-poor headache, he'd be more inclined to think he looked kind of cute. It's even an opportune time to kiss him maybe, if only because his lips are slightly parted and looking particularly kissable, but Stan knows he tastes like stale vomit and despair, so he refrains.

He grabs Kyle's wrist and checks his watch, whining when he realizes that it's only about twelve o'clock at night. There is absolutely no reason for having a hangover at midnight, he knows, and is actually kind of hating himself right now. Why does he do shit like this to himself?

Kyle stirs beside him; he's a light sleeper if he falls asleep before a certain time, and he's willing to bet they fell asleep while it was still light outside. Probably before his mom or Shelly even got home from work.

"Hey, you're up," Kyle gives him a lazy smile. His voice is thick and scratchy, like it always is right when he wakes up, and it makes Stan feel a little less like he's going to throw up again. Kyle said such nice things to him last night (or, this afternoon? He can't really tell anymore), and it makes Stan insanely giddy until he remembers why he said all those things in the first place. Stan's got a problem with being a whiny twat when he drinks, and sometimes if he's feeling particularly awful he gets into the really morose shit.

"Fuck," he mutters. "I was bad, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, kinda," Kyle smirks, and Stan kind of wants to smack his face. Or kiss it. Kiss it, probably, even when he continues with, "but you didn't throw up on me this time, so I've seen you through worse."

Stan does reach out and smack him on the head for that one, sticking out his tongue when Kyle laughs harder. "You're lucky I can't move," he mutters, "or I would projectile vomit all over your face."

"I don't think you have anything left to barf up," Kyle chuckles and pushes his fingers into Stan's hair.

"Little did you know," Stan yawns and shuts his eyes as Kyle's thumbs rub gently over his temples, "I actually reserve a little bit in my stomach at all times just in case I need to revenge vomit."

"Mm," Kyle nods and scoots closer, so Stan can curl into him fully and burrow his face into his chest. "You were pretty fuckin' lit, dude."

"Yeah, but," Stan yawns a little. "You _love me_, so whatever." He grins when Kyle goes completely still, and laughs even though it hurts his head and makes him want to barf when Kyle rolls them over and pins Stan to the bed.

"How the fuck were you not blacked out for that?"

"Because god hates you, obviously," Stan snorts and shifts his knee up so it's pressing against Kyle's crotch. Kyle's eyelids flutter a little, because he's kind of hard from what Stan can feel, and Stan gets to wondering if he'd actually fuck him when he's all gross and unkempt and shit. He kind of hopes not, and so starts in his attempts to wriggle away with an, "Okay get off me, I'm fucking gross."

"So, if you weren't blacked out, you gotta remember that I told you not to talk about anything I said," Kyle raises an eyebrow and grazes his lips over the tip of Stan's nose.

"Mm, that doesn't sound like something I'd do, even if I _did_ remember you saying that," Stan shakes his head and sticks out his tongue. "Now let me up so I can go shower."

Kyle nods and rolls off of him, grabbing his laptop out from under the bed while Stan gets up and stretches all the poison out of his muscles.

"You need a password to get into that, dick," Stan yawns.

"I know," Kyle grins as the computer's welcome noise sounds. "Dude, you have to start using stronger passwords."

"Make one for me," Stan whines through a particularly good stretch, polishing it off with a pout that makes Kyle laugh really loud. Stan frowns, "Don't marginalize my demands, love slave."

"Oh, my God," Kyle groans and runs a hand over his face. "Go shower, assmaster."

"Don't look at too much porn on my computer, cocksucker," Stan sticks out his tongue and leaves the room, laughing as he catches Kyle flipping him off out of the corner of his eye. Trapper and Hawkeye are both sleeping, curled up against one another just outside Stan's door. Stan creeps down the hall, careful not to wake them, because if they wake up they'll think it's breakfast time and Stan will have to listen to them whine all night.

He showers quickly, washing every disgusting part of himself before he hops out of the shower and shaves the black forest on his face. Then he brushes his teeth about three times longer than normal, because he's going to get back in that room and kiss the fuck out of Kyle. Because Kyle smiled at him and doesn't hate him and it makes Stan want to lick his face off.

Of course, being that he forgot to bring clean clothes with him, Stan's only got a towel to cover himself on his way back, and he's kind of getting hard because, come on, a whole week without Kyle and the fucker is _right there waiting_ on his bed.

Except Shelly chooses that exact moment to come out of her room, pajama-clad and on her way to brush her teeth, and effectively deflates any erection Stan may have ever hoped to have. She folds her arms and narrows her gaze warily at Stan.

"I'm sober, Shel, it's okay," he rolls his eyes.

"I know that," Shelly snaps. "Mom went in to check on you but you were out cold. Kyle said you were sleeping it off."

"And lo and behold," Stan holds out his arms. "Off I slept it."

"Stan," she says warningly, cocking her head ever so slightly and _fuck_ she looks like their mom.

"Fuck off, Shelly," Stan just rolls his eyes and goes back to his room.

"Don't tell me to fuck off," she shoots back. "I'm gonna be super pissed if you die before my wedding, dicklick."

"Why?" Stan scoffs. "Dad's already going—are you in the market for two raving drunkards?"

Shelly actually looks taken aback by that, and Stan feels kind of bad as soon as he realizes just how fucked up that probably was.

"Shel—"

"No," Shelly frowns. "Fuck you. You're my goddamned brother and I want you at my goddamned wedding. I don't care if you don't like Eric, and I don't care if you don't wanna go; it's my wedding and it's not about what your bitchass wants, okay?"

"Fine!" Stan exclaims. Shelly doesn't often rage without physical violence, so he's kind of puzzled right now. He's about to shout something dumb back, but Kyle pops his head out of Stan's room and gives a harsh, "What the fuck are you two doing out here?"

Stan looks back at him and, upon feeling a sudden rush of bravery, turns back to Shelly with a scowl and reaffirms, "Fine. I'll go to your stupid wedding as long as Kyle can be my plus one."

Shelly looks at them, thin eyebrows perched high on her forehead as she regards them with a scrutinizing look. Stan's not sure why he's possessed to do what he does next, but there he goes, grabbing Kyle by the back of the neck and pulling him into a kiss.

"Oh, Jesus _Christ_," Shelly blurts out. Out of the corner of his vision, Stan sees her throw her arm over her eyes and silently he starts a big round of applause in his head. He's, like, ridiculously relieved that he's finally kind of _told _someone. Like, yeah, his mom knows, but that's only because she _figured it out,_ and Butters and Kenny know, but they know everything about him. Shelly was someone he had to tell, and he told her (sort of), and it makes Stan's heart that much lighter. He wants to pull Kyle closer, but Shelly's right there so he doesn't.

"So," Shelly says when Stan pulls back, and even though Kyle's looking at him all dazed and unable to hide that idiotic look on his face, he glances over at her and gives her a little smile. She just perches her hands on her hips and looks off to the side, "So, that happened."

"Please, let me bring him as my plus one?" he gives her a big, cheesy grin now. She rolls her eyes and flops her arms uselessly at her sides.

"You know I would've let you anyway," she says. "No need for full PDA in the hallway, especially since I've been on my best behavior with Eric."

"Yeah, I bet that's real chore," Kyle snarks from beside Stan and cuts her off before she can retaliate, "No take-backs! You already said I could go!"

"Ugh," Shelly grimaces, looking from one of them to the other before she lets out a defeated sigh and concedes, "Fine, but don't let me regret it."

Stan beams at her, and would actually probably go to hug her if he weren't wearing only a towel. She doesn't much look like she wants to be thanked, though, and instead just disappears into the bathroom before Stan can say anything. He looks back at Kyle, a contented smile on his face, before he moves in to kiss him again. This one's longer, drawn out, and makes Stan's heart skip a beat when Kyle pulls him into the room, their lips still fused, and shuts the door.

They break apart and look at each other, all flushed and laughing, and Stan can't help his smile (in spite of his still-throbbing head) when Kyle starts pressing little kisses all over his face. He may be in very real danger of melting into the floor when he hears the words, "I missed you."

They always miss each other, but this time they get to fuck to get it out. Fucking will be better than just sitting around, eating shitty food, and playing Xbox. He lets Kyle take the reins; he wants to know just how much he was missed, goddamn it.

When he feels Kyle's hands close over his wrists and pin them above his head, he thinks he may be starting to get a pretty good idea.

"You're being friendly," Stan smiles as Kyle's lips graze over his freshly shaven jaw. Kyle's smell (because it belongs to Kyle, okay?) mingles with Stan's body wash and shampoo and the smell of clean and it's making Stan a little lightheaded.

That could also, of course, be because all of the blood in his head is making a mad rush southward, but whatever.

"Already told you I missed you," Kyle says softly as he nips at Stan's neck. He soothes his tongue back over the bite, only to come down hard again, and it's at that point that Stan has to intervene.

"Dude, I start back at work on Monday," he nudges at the top of Kyle's head with his chin. "If you wanna bite me, do it where my shirt'll cover at least."

Kyle smirks against him, flicking his thumb over one of Stan's nipples, "Like here?"

Stan lets out a breathy sigh and nods his head.

"There's good," he says, so Kyle trails his fingers down further, settling just below his belly button. Stan whines, "That's good too."

"And here?" Kyle asks as his knuckles brush over the tip of Stan's erection.

"You're such an asshole," Stan laughs a little, only to be silenced by Kyle's lips on his again. God Jesus _fuck_, how did they get by without doing this before? There's no other way Stan can think to function now. He wants Kyle inside him, and he's straddling the line between how weird it is to actively want that and how urgent the need really is.

"Here," he mutters and ducks out of Kyle's grip. He walks over to his bedside table and goes to open the drawer, to get out a condom and lube and such, of course, when he notices that he's got a few missed alerts blinking on his phone. They're probably mostly old, but he grabs the phone anyway, just to make sure no one's called him about the work or anything. Last year they made him come in three days early to catalogue the entirety of the music department's music and instruments. That'd been fun.

"The fuck are you doing?" Kyle cocks a brow.

"Making sure you're the only one who'll be fucking me over for the rest of the week," Stan sticks out his tongue and puts his phone up to his ear to listen to his voicemail messages. Kyle flips him off and crawls back onto the bed, pulling the computer onto his lap and starting to scroll through something or other. As Stan deletes a few old messages from his mom, he knows Kyle's been lost for the night. He's got such short attention span that it's actually astonishing sometimes.

When he gets to a voicemail from Rebecca about helping her and a few of her library assistants with re-barcoding books tomorrow morning, he groans, but sends her a quick text that he'll be there, along with a quick remark about being otherwise occupied by her ex-boyfriend's talented dick, because at least she'll remind him to tell her about it tomorrow.

It appears that he's also got a few mixed texts, the most recent of which hit his phone a few hours ago. It's from Kenny, and reads in Kenny's broken up text speak, _'kyle knos abt xmas orgy 2011. think hes on his way over to u. brace urself.'_

Oh.

Oh _shit._

Stan looks over at Kyle and immediately feels an overwhelming sense of nausea settle over him. That's why he'd come over last night—not to tell Stan he loved him, or to make sure he was alive or okay, or because he was sorry for being a fucker. He came over to _yell_ at him.

Although now Kyle at least seems calm, and he was about to have sex with Stan, so… unless it was that punishing, rough kind of sex Stan's never really had the pleasure of experiencing he _figures_ he's in the clear? He's not sure. The only think he knows for sure right now is that his boner is gone and his upchuck reflex has been kicked into high gear.

It was a stupid, onetime thing that Stan still isn't entirely sure actually _happened_. Like, it happened, but it's so incredibly fucked that Stan's just not sure sometimes.

And Kyle's not saying _anything_ about it.

Stan can't have that. They have to talk about it now. This is how shit starts, he knows—he lived with parents who sit and let their upsets go unspoken and fill them with rage and resentment. It doesn't do anything but drive people apart, and as non-confrontational as Stan feels right now, he loves Kyle enough to bring it up now than risk losing him forever later.

God, he's so fucking _gay_ it's officially un-funny.

"Um," he begins, and freezes up a little when Kyle looks over at him because they're absolutely no graceful way to do this, y'know? He takes a breath and starts with a, "So, Kenny says you know I slept with him and Butters?"

He can see Kyle's pupils shrink from where he stands, and with a regretful sigh goes to put on some boxers and a clean set of sleep clothes.

There's about a thousand things he could say, each one more trite and clichéd than the next. He doesn't hold that it was cheating, because on a mere technicality he's pretty sure it wasn't. It felt kind of like cheating, though, like he'd let Butters and Kenny in on a secret that was only meant for him and Kyle. It just makes him feel like an asshole that he let it slip, and he supposes maybe that's what he should start with.

"I'm sorry," is what comes out though as he goes to sit cross-legged beside Kyle. Kyle nods a bit, shutting the laptop and setting it off to the side as he moves to take one of Stan's hands in both of his. He's not holding as much as he is running his fingers over it in what feels like an attempt to, like, memorize it or something.

They sit there for a moment, Stan letting Kyle work through whatever it is he wants to say before he comes out with a simple, "I don't know what to say."

Stan nods. He should've figured as much. Kyle's not so good with his emotions and things—the only ones he's really got down pat are angry, annoyed, and amused, and he's not shy about showing those. This isn't any of those. He actually looks… _fuck_, he looks sad. That makes Stan feel even worse.

"I don't know," Stan takes a deep breath. He has to say it. He has to. "But, uh… I think we're more than just fucking around, dude."

"Ah, fuck," Kyle scrunches up his face and flops back against the bed. Stan heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his damp hair. This is fucked in just about every way imaginable, and he knows it too. They both do. Stan's way too hungover to deal with this bullshit, though. There has to be a way around this, something that will simplify everything and make it feel like normal again.

Then it hits him.

"Dude, nuclear option," he offers suddenly. Kyle looks up, eyebrow raised, and even tosses out a helpful, "What?"

"Nuclear option," Stan repeats as Kyle sits up. "I say… I say that we come to a decision right now. Right now, if we both agree, we can just… dissolve whatever this is and go back to being friends. Like, this happened, it's done, and that's that."

"Mm," Kyle nods, looking like he's giving this matter a careful amount of thought. He looks back up at Stan and asks, "And if we don't want to?"

"I think our other option is boyfriends, dude," Stan says softly, regretfully, like he just ran over Kyle's dog. With the way Kyle reacts, Stan figures he may as well have.

"Fuck," Kyle sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"What's going on?" Stan asks, because that's how they got answers out of him in therapy, and he and Kyle are too close for him to blow it off with a "nothing".

"I like this, dude," Kyle admits quietly. "I like kissing you and shit—why do you think I do it? I don't… I don't wanna stop."

"Fuck, thank God," Stan lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, laughing a little when he sees Kyle smile. "Because, like… I demand repeat performances of last week, dude. That shit was epic."

Kyle laughs outright at that before biting his lip and looking over at Stan and scrunching up his face again.

"Boyfriends, though?" he asks, and the word just sends Stan's stomach into a series of flips. He hasn't been anyone's boyfriend in years, and from what he remembers he's not very good at it. Hell, he's not even good at the fucking around part, how's he supposed to be a good _boyfriend_?

"Oh, shit dude," he hears Kyle say, but it's a little too late for him to do anything except attempt to bring Stan's trash can over toward them. Stan ends up coughing up nothing but bile and water all over Kyle's pants.

"Aw, fuckin' A, dude!" Kyle groans and leaps up. Stan's torn between red-hot embarrassment and feeling sort of relieved. Either way, Kyle's shucking his pants, so… he's had worse ends to this scenario.

"Sorry," he still mutters and chugs the rest of the water from the glass beside his bed.

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no' on the boyfriends front, then," Kyle sighs and tosses the pants into Stan's hamper, and for some reason that feels more intimate than anything he's done to date.

"It's not a 'no'," Stan shakes his head. "It just makes me nervous as shit, dude. I'm crap at that kind of thing."

"Oh, you are not," Kyle rolls his eyes and comes to sit beside Stan on the bed. He slings an arm around his shoulders and rests their heads together. "If anything, I'm the one who's crap at it. I'm a robot, remember? But… if we don't want to stop it, and we don't want to be boyfriends, what the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"I mean," Stan sniffs. "It's just a word, right? _Boyfriends_. Maybe we can do the whole concept thing without any of the… y'know, calling-it-that thing? Just tell people that we're monogamous and butt-fuckingly in love or something."

"Man, fuck other people," Kyle snorts and pushes his lips to Stan's cheek. "But, I mean, whatever makes you not throw up is cool with me."

"Asshole," Stan snorts as Kyle pushes him back onto the bed and kisses his face some more. "Maybe that's what I'll call you when people ask," and he continues in mocking voices, "'Who's that?' 'Oh, just my asshole. No big deal.'"

"Gotta tell you, I prefer that to love slave," Kyle snorts and kisses the end of Stan's nose. "Man, you want some gum or something? Your breath is super rank right now."

Stan rolls his eyes and breathes right in Kyle's face, cackling madly when Kyle pulls a face and rolls off of him. "Hang on," he says and goes to search under the bed for the handle of cheap vodka he keeps there (in case of emergencies) . He unscrews the cap and takes in a mouthful, only to have Kyle rip it away from him a second later.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kyle's face is hardened into a frown and looking especially threatening. Stan just shakes his head and starts swishing the alcohol around in his mouth, spitting it in the empty water glass a few seconds later before he crawls up on his bed.

"Disinfecting," he shrugs. "Isn't that what they used to use that shit for?" He leans forward and pushes a soft kiss to Kyle's lips. "I didn't swallow any, I promise."

"I'm more concerned with the fact that it was under your bed, dude," Kyle raises his eyebrow, but Stan takes the bottle from him and sets it on the floor so he can kiss him again. When he pushes him back on the bed, Kyle doesn't protest. He lets Stan move on top of him, lets him lick and suck his way down his neck, and even lets out a few pleasured sighs when Stan's thumbs start teasing his nipples through his shirt.

Stan takes this as encouragement and pushes his hands up under the cotton. There's a science or computers joke on the front of his shirt that Stan doesn't get, but he smiles anyway because Kyle would. The moment he tosses it to the side, Stan sits back a bit so he can look at Kyle properly. Everything kind of happened so fast last time that he didn't really get the chance to take in the full aesthetics. He's always been lean, but he's decidedly more fit, because he runs or whatever now, and Stan feels his mouth start salivating. You really never would know, what with how he dresses. It kind of makes Stan never want to remove his shirt ever again.

"You're hot," he hears himself say, and pauses, mortified, when Kyle busts up laughing.

"Are you high?" Kyle chokes, and Stan wonders if he's bothered looking in a mirror for the last four years. Shit, he probably still thinks he looks how he did in high school, long-limbed and angular and awkward.

"You are, Kyle," Stan just shakes his head and smiles when Kyle's face falls at the sincerity behind the statement. He traces his fingers over the muscles in Kyle's stomach, "You've got abs, dude. And pecs. And your arms are pretty fucking nice."

"Jesus, okay," Kyle laughs a little, his face beet red with embarrassment. "I'm hot. So're you."

"Mm," Stan shakes his head. "Adorable. On my best days."

Kyle rolls his eyes and pulls him down for a kiss, hard, like he's making a point, before he breaks away and pants, "I think you're hot, so you are."

He licks a line along Stan's lower lip before he licks inside his mouth, and suddenly they're making out again. He lets Kyle remove his shirt, and against his better judgment even lets him leave a hickey just where his neck meets his shoulder.

"You don't even care that that could get me fired, do you?" Stan asks through a chuckle. Kyle shakes his head and moves to grab Stan's ass through his sweats.

"Hey, ah," Kyle gulps, "get the lube?"

"Oh, shit yeah," Stan laughs outright that time. He almost forgot. As much as he wants Kyle inside him again, that's not happening without lube at all ever. He grabs the bottle out of his nightstand and pushes it into Kyle's hand with what is surely a derptastic grin.

Only, Kyle's not returning it.

"You okay?" Stan asks and sits back, losing his breath a bit when he feels Kyle's erection against his ass, straining against the confines of his jeans.

"I'm fine, just," Kyle gulps again and gnaws a little on his lower lip. "Do you, um—would you want to… like, do me, or whatever?"

Stan definitely feels the world cease its rotation as he looks down at Kyle with big eyes. Did he just—he totally said—but there's no fucking—

"Say what?" is what finally comes out, because of course that's what he says. Kyle's face flushes further as he props himself up on an elbow and hands the lube to Stan.

"You like it, right?" he asks softly, and Stan nods. Kyle nods back and takes a shaky breath, "Then I want you to do it to me. If you want."

"Uh, of course I fucking want, dude," Stan says probably a little too insistently and snatches the bottle out of Kyle's hands, happier now that Kyle's laughing again. He moves so he can kiss his way down Kyle's chest and stomach, licking and sucking and biting all the way down, and catches himself grinning like a total pervert when he gets to the little happy trail of dark red hair that disappears into Kyle's pants.

He undoes his jeans and pulls those and his boxers clean off as soon as he can manage to do so without causing damage. Kyle's dick sits there against his stomach, flushed and looking desperate for attention that Stan is more than willing to give. He looks up at Kyle, seeing a mix of anxiety and lust clouding his face, and decides he needs to do something about this. He ducks down and, with a smirk, flicks his tongue through the slit of Kyle's cock.

"Fuck," he hears Kyle breathe above him, and with that decides now is as good a time as any to take him into his mouth, just for a few minutes. He works over Kyle slowly; all he wants is to get rid of the tension he can feel in Kyle's muscles. He needs to relax if Stan's going to get this to feel remotely good.

He bobs his head a few times, slowly still, eyes flitting up to check on Kyle's well-being every few moments, until he's sure Kyle's relaxed enough to take a finger without any trouble. He pulls off of him for a bit, moving to uncap the lube and squeeze a bit on his fingers before he returns to his ministrations, this time using a finger to gently circle Kyle's entrance. He feels Kyle tense up a little as he pushes in, so he sucks a little harder and moves his tongue a little and that seems to help.

He moves on to the second finger maybe a little too fast, but he pulls off and lubes up a little more to make up for it. When he tries to duck down again, Kyle stops him, "Dude, you're gonna make me come." And as amazingly beautiful as those words are to hear, Stan hides his goofy smile and shrugs.

"Maybe that'll help you relax," he suggests. Kyle looks like he's considering this, so Stan uses the distraction to his advantage and starts wriggling his fingers around. It takes a bit of concentration, but Stan finally pinpoints that little bundle of nerves and starts stroking it as best he can. Kyle's lost now, lying back flat on the bed and making these amazing noises in the back of his throat that make Stan want to flip him over and just start going at it.

But no. He has to do this carefully or Kyle will never let him live it down.

"Dude, do you want me to make you come?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the inside of Kyle's thigh. He sees Kyle nod wildly and fist the sheets and decides not to tease him. He licks along Kyle's erection, dark and full now, before taking him in and letting him come in his mouth.

As predicted, he goes limp as a noodle, and Stan smiles against his hip.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Mm, ready to get fucked," Kyle hums contentedly, and that's more than enough for Stan. He scrambles up so he can get rid of his sweats and underwear, trying not to think of the chub on his stomach and how it rolls over onto itself when he bends this way and that, and goes to grab a condom out of the drawer.

"You're sure about this?" Stan asks, already tearing the condom open, and Kyle smiles lazily at him.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he replies. "You're good to me, dude."

Stan swallows a lump of emotions in his throat and leans down to kiss him, and even though it's messy he doesn't care. Kyle trusts him.

That's more than anyone else in the world can say.

He shakily rolls the condom over himself and lets out a sigh of relief, like his dick thinks he'd forgotten about him or something. Kyle watches, pupils blown wide and lips parted because _holy mother of fuck_, Stan's got him panting. This makes him absolutely unable to open the lube again because his hands are shaking so fucking hard, so Kyle has to sit up and do it for him. And okay, Stan honestly almost loses his shit when Kyle pours lube onto him and slicks him up, which makes him push Kyle back onto the bed and start trying to arrange his legs around his waist.

Stan positions himself against Kyle's entrance and, _fuck_, this is happening. He ducks down and sucks Kyle's lips into a kiss so he can distract as he pushes in.

"Oh, wow," Kyle's overcome by a fit of laughter and Stan takes the opportunity to bury himself entirely, which earns him a sharp, "_Wowwowwow_, that's—fucking _wow_."

"'Wow' or 'ow'?" Stan feels obligated to ask, even though the tight heat around him is making rational thought pretty much impossible. He's not going to move until Kyle says so, but _goddamn_.

"Wow," Kyle's still laughing. "You're big, dude."

Stan's heart thumps harder at this, because who doesn't like hearing how big their dick is? But ego stroking aside, Stan's mildly concerned. "Dude, are you okay?"

"Oh, my god, this hurts," Kyle's progressed into full hysterics now, and Stan ducks in to kiss him and tell him that he's all right, that it'll go away, that he's going to take care of him. Kyle seems a little pacified by this, enough to tell him that he can move, so Stan does just that. He gives a few shallow thrusts first letting Kyle adjust, and soon Kyle's trying to move against him.

Then he thinks he probably hit Kyle's sweet spot because Kyle arches off of the bed almost entirely and fists his hands in Stan's hair.

"Feel better?" Stan pants out a laugh into Kyle's neck.

"Oh my god, fuck you, seriously," Kyle sighs.

Stan grins and kisses him. He actually likes the burn and fullness that comes with being fucked, but maybe it's not for everyone. He reaches down and takes Kyle in his hand, trying to stroke him back to life (what's sex if you're not at least hard?). Kyle wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders and it all disintegrates after that; everything is them, just them, thrusting into each other and swallowing each other's grunts and groans and whimpers in sloppy kisses.

Stan makes sure Kyle comes again before he snaps his hips roughly a few times and follows suit. He collapses on top of Kyle, sweaty and sticky all over again, and thinks that, if he died right now, he'd probably be a little more than all right with that. Plus, Kyle is kissing his face and playing with his hair, so for all he knows, he's already died and gone to heaven.

He pulls out of Kyle and tosses the condom in trash can before rolling back over and pulling Kyle into his arms. They don't talk, really, and Stan's actually okay with that. Kyle looks too fucked out for that anyway, so they fall asleep on each other, sweaty, naked, and, in Stan's case at least, completely happy for the first time in a very long time.

Which is why Stan enters the library the next morning with a questionably large smile on his face that makes Rebecca shake her head in utter amusement. Stan just shrugs and takes a long sip out of his giant travel mug of coffee that Kyle made for him this morning (because even after sex last night, he still woke up to go running at, like, five or something).

Neither his mom nor Shelly questioned Kyle's presence in the house, nor his coffee brewing, nor his egg scrambling. Shelly just rolled her eyes and ate her dry wheat toast, while his mom shook her head and told Kyle that Stan's already spoiled enough and that he wasn't helping matters any.

Then, of course, his mom's car broke down and Kyle had to drive him here, which most certainly _did_ result Stan getting head on a deserted road near the school just a few minutes ago.

"Good Lord, you're radiant," Rebecca comments as Stan goes to set his shit down behind the counter.

"Fucking someone into incoherence will do that to you," he chirps back and turns to help her, only to stop cold when he sees Rebecca making a cutting motion over her throat. Jack is standing beside her, eyebrows high on his forehead as he gawks at Stan.

Because of course Jack is one of her library assistants. Of-fucking-course he is.

"Did you maybe miss the part of my message where I told you that there would be students here?" Rebecca grips at her frizzy brown hair and gives Stan an imploring look.

"You said we'd start at nine!" Stan jumps to defend himself. "It's not even ten 'til!"

"My mom had to work, so she dropped me off early," Jack supplies softly, and it makes Stan feel like complete and utter shit. He doesn't know how he'd feel if he'd heard a teacher talk like that in middle school…

He probably would've been pretty stoked, actually. Along with a little mortified.

Probably mostly mortified, though.

"Man, I'm sorry, dude," Stan lets out a breath. "I wasn't thinking."

"Obviously," Jack rolls his eyes and grins. Stan nods and tries to will the blush off of his face, because if there's one thing he doesn't need right now it's a precocious thirteen-year-old butting his queer little nose into Stan's big queer business (which is exactly what will happen for the rest of the day).

"Okay, well," Rebecca sighs. "If I wait for the other kids, will you and your foul mouth go get the books out of the annex? They're on the top shelf at the far end of the third row."

"Uh, yeah," Stan nods and turns on his heel without looking at either Jack or Rebecca. Fuck, he could've been in deep shit if that had been the wrong kid.

He walks down the long hall back to the annex, and yeah he kind of figures Jack is going to follow him, because he's Jack and that's what he does, but that just means now he has to think of a way to evade all of his invasive questions, which he doesn't feel like doing right now. Can't he just bask in the awesomeness of having fucked Kyle for, like, a day? That's all he wants.

"So, Mr. Marsh," Jack's voice says from behind him as soon as he's in the annex. "I guess you had a good break, huh?"

"Okay, Jack," Stan turns around to face him, holding his hands up in what he hopes is a halting jesture. "I can't tell you how inappropriate that conversation will be, so I'm just gonna ask you to quit while you're ahead, all right?"

"Sorry," Jack scrunches up his eyebrows and looks down at the floor. "You just looked really happy when you came in today. And I wanted to tell you that I think it's really cool when you're happy, because you mostly never are. And I think it's awesome that another guy makes you that happy, 'cause whenever my mom and dad talk about it, they always say how sad gay people really must be, you know? You're the only other gay person I know, and if you're not sad, maybe I don't have to be either."

Jack looks back up at Stan and they lock eyes and suddenly Stan feels even worse for this kid than he did before. Hell, he wasn't even ten before he'd known gay people and known they could be happy. Until now, he just kind of assumed that that was how people's lives were, like the kinds of people they knew and stuff. Stan grabs the back of his neck and shifts a little.

"Man, I'm glad I could be that for you, then," he says, and he means it. Jack beams at him then and the happy feelings come back, fully and completely.

He's actually kind of bummed that this is the last year he gets to hang out with Jack.

They grab a box of old textbooks each and walk back into the main library, where there are two more library assistants waiting patiently with Rebecca. Stan recognizes them both—one plays flute in the band and the other is the son of the head PTA mom, the one that got that one teacher fired handing out peanut M&Ms (because don't they _know_ her son has a peanut allergy). Honestly, the kid looks about as friendly as his mother.

It wasn't even like the kid had eaten any.

"Molly, Sam, you know Mr. Marsh?" Rebecca sort of emphasizes calling him Mr. Marsh, like he'll forget he's supposed to be an educator or something. Molly and Sam both nod, even if Sam lingers a little too long on Jack and Jack, honest to God, attempts to hide behind Stan a little.

"All right, fantastic," Rebecca claps her hands. She goes through the instructions of what the kids are going to be doing, and then asks for Stan's 'computer expertise' for entering barcodes into the system or something, which really meant that she only asked if he wanted to come in the first place so they could hang out.

"So," she says as she sits down, well out of earshot of the kids. "You and Kyle. Can't say I didn't kind of see it coming."

Stan snorts, starting up a new game of tetris on the computer as he sips at his lukewarm coffee. "Don't tell me you're jealous," he says. "You're the only friend I have here, I can't lose that."

"I'm not jealous, are you insane?" Rebecca laughs and cocks an eyebrow, before she leans in close and lowers her voice, "You guys have been waiting to fuck each other since I've known you. Just be glad it happened instead of letting it go unfulfilled for the rest of your life. Could you imagine that much sexual tension coming out when you're sixty and impotent? Talk about embarassing."

"Gee, thanks," Stan scowls, trying to make all of his little blocks fit together, but he fails spectacularly. "We're together. Like, _together_."

Rebecca does look over at this, and even blinks a few times before she hauls off and smacks him on the shoulder, which gets the kids' attention and makes Stan propel his rolling chair away from her.

"Stan, seriously, are you _insane_?" she whispers harshly.

"Jesus Christ, Rebecca, what's your problem?" Stan asks, holding his shoulder and scowling at her further.

"Don't get me wrong," she begins, more calmly this time. "I'm glad you guys got out the sexual tension, but… Sex is one thing. A relationship, though? With _Kyle_?"

"What's wrong with that?" Stan shrugs.

"Stan, you two are both emotionally stunted in the worst ways," Rebecca says franly, like this should be obvious to him. "All you want is attention and romance and those're the only things Kyle wants to avoid. It's not on purpose, it's no one's fault, it's just how he is, just like you are how you are. He's going to hurt you. He's not going to mean to, but it's going to happen and it's going to destroy what you have."

Stan stares at her blankly for a minute, sort of unable to believe he's hearing this from her of all people. She and Kyle are friendly still, and she's been nothing if not supportive of Stan's newly embraced homosexual tendencies, but this is kind of fucked up.

"Dude," he says. "Maybe that's what happened with you two—"

"That's not what happened with us," Rebecca rolls her eyes. "I'm telling you this because I don't want you to get hurt. I'm looking out for you. Friend, remember?"

Stan deflates a little and rubs his hand over his face. "I know," he mutters. "I know you are, it's just… I'm feeling really good about it and you've done nothing but harsh my mellow all day."

"Well," Rebecca pauses a bit, and like it's going to come out as acid instead of words, continues with, "Well, I'm sorry."

"s'okay, dude," Stan shrugs and goes back to start another game of tetris. The rest of the morning is pretty uneventful, save for when Sam finds a cockroach hiding in a row of books and flips the fuck out. From that point, Stan and Rebecca decide that they have to keep a better eye on the kids and go to help with the actual grunt work of relabeling.

By the time they're done with everything it's the afternoon and Stan is out in front of the school, listening to his iPod and waiting for Kyle to come pick him up.

"Hey, Mr. Marsh," Jack says as he comes to sit beside him. "I thought you had a car."

"Eh, my mom's broke down, so she's using it today," Stan shrugs and pushes his earphones off of his head.

"Damn," Jack heaves a sigh. "I was gonna bum a ride off of you."

"Presumptuous," Stan shakes his head. "What about seeing if Eli's parents could come get you?"

"He's hanging out with his girlfriend today," Jack sighs again, this time a little more dejected than the last. "He's being kind of a douche lately anyway."

"Eh, guys get like that when they have their first girlfriends," Stan shrugs, not wanting to recount the numerous times he blew off Kyle to be with Wendy, or Kyle blew him off to be with Rebecca. "Why don't you go with that Sam kid?" Stan suggests. The kid's kind of a wad, but Stan used to get rides home from Cartman when Kyle was sick and stuff.

"Ugh, fuck that noise," Jack sticks out his tongue. "He's an asshole. And he always stares at me. Like, his mom is church friends with my mom, okay, and they're super religious and stuff. He probably knows I'm gay and he's trying to see if he could take me in a fight or something."

"Who, him?" Stan laughs a little as he nods over to where Sam is talking animatedly on his cell phone. "Man, don't worry about him. He's not gonna do anything, and if he tried you could take him easy. I say that as your friend, not as your teacher," he amends quickly. Sam is a little waif of a guy, and Jack's kind of big and burly for his age, which is why Stan's reassures him over and over that no one's going to suspect a goddamned thing about him.

Then again, you can't be too careful with this kind of thing. Kenny's in danger of being blown away by a strong breeze most of the time, and he managed to break Cartman's jaw back in senior year. Never underestimate the power of an impassioned scrawny mountain town hick, apparently.

Kyle rolls up before Stan can say anything, though, and even gives Stan a nice loud courtesy honk, just to be a dick. Stan looks over at Jack and nudges him. He and Sam are staring at each other, Sam with a little more hostility behind it than Jack, and suddenly Stan finds himself really wondering whether or not Sam _would_ try to kick Jack's ass.

"Man, don't worry about him," he says. "You need a ride? Kyle and I can take you home."

"Really?" Jack perks up. "Thanks, Mr. Marsh!"

"Oh, come on," Stan shakes his head as he and Jack both stand. "We're barely even at school, okay? You can call me Stan 'til Monday, dude."

Jack smiles at him again, and even takes it in stride when they get in the car and Kyle starts in with a "Who the fuck is this?"

"Don't be a dick," Stan rolls his eyes. "This is Jack, we're taking him home."

"Ah," Kyle nods. "Hi Jack, I'm Kyle."

"I know," Jack smiles, and Stan almost smacks his forehead because _Jack that is not how you do things_. Kyle snorts, though, asks Jack where he's going, and takes off.

Stan catches Jack looking toward where Sam had until recently been standing, and cracks a smile.

"Relax, Sam's not gonna try anything," he says, and then realizes he can't say anything for sure, because honestly, his mother is the kind of woman who gives Sheila Broflovski a run for her money, and if her baby boy is uncomfortable with a gay kid she'd sure as shit justify an act of violence against one. He adds, "But if you're really worried, blow the whistle and I'm fucking on it, dude."

"Stanley Randall Marsh, don't curse in front of the child," Kyle reprimands lightly as he comes to a stop at the red light just at the edge of the school.

"Bite me, fucker," Stan flips him off, which only makes Jack laugh and Kyle jab him in the side.

"I don't know," Jack shifts in his seat. "I'll see if he gives me shit during church on Sunday."

"Atta boy," Stan gives a nod just as Kyle comes to the very loud and sarcastic realization of, "Oh, _Jack_ is your gay little duckling. I see."

"Dude, if you're trying to make me uncomfortable… I go to church," Jack snarks. "I don't scare easily."

Kyle barks out a laugh, "I like him."

"He is pretty spunky," Stan agrees, wondering just when the fuck this light is going to change.

"We all know spunk is very important to you, Stan," Kyle smirks, only when Stan tries to hit him Kyle catches his wrist and pecks him quickly on the lips. It's not even anything, they barely fucking touched, and yet Stan still hears Jack say "Holy shit" from the back like it's a big deal.

"Dude, relax," Stan turns to look at him and chuckles a little as Kyle honks and screams "get out of the road, cockhead!" to someone who's undoubtedly waited until the very last second to cross the street.

"No, look," Jack nods to the near distance behind Stan.

"The fuck, Stan, is this another one of your gay little disciples?" Kyle asks and Stan turns around. There's Sam, blocking Kyle's way to the intersection, and looking into the car like he's looking into the city of Sodom itself.

Oh, _shit._

* * *

><p><em><em>**Thank you to everyone who's been reading and/or offering feedback an' sech. You guys, as I will never let you forget, are absolutely wonderful and I'm happy you take time to enjoy and/or let me know what you think. **

**Another long chapter look at that. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

In the car, on the way home.

_I'm going to get fired_.

"You're not going to get fired, Stan."

Eating dinner, poking at the food his mom sets in front of him.

_I'm going to get fired_.

"Dude, you're not going to get fired."

Every single night, staring at the ceiling all wide-eyed and strung tight.

_I'm going to get fired_.

"Well, you know what's not gonna help?" Kyle mutters, frustrated, into his pillow, "Keeping me awake."

Stan can't help it, though. Parents are fucking scary, especially when they think their kids have been compromised. Hell, his best friend's mom is one of those parents—he's seen the wrath of people like Sheila Broflovski, and as an '_educator'_ he fears it like nothing else.

"Dude, they don't have anything on you," Kyle says for the thousandth time. "You kissed me in my car, off campus. If they fire you I will personally defend you in court, and don't think for a second I won't."

None of this does anything to quell Stan's anxieties though, so the next morning Kyle drops him off at work all bleary eyed and clinging to his giant cup of coffee like he'll actually cease to exist if he lets it go. Who knows, it could be the last cup of coffee he enjoys while he's gainfully employed.

"So I'm taking my mom to her last radiation appointment this afternoon," Kyle says and grabs Stan's hand halfassedly in one of his.

"Yay," Stan gives him a sleepy little cheer. "Let me know how she's doing."

"Will do," Kyle nods. "And I pick you up at three-thirty?"

"Mm, yeah," Stan yawns this time. "Thanks for lugging me around, dude. We're picking my mom's car up from the shop tonight, I promise."

"Don't worry about it," Kyle shrugs and draws his fingers over the back of Stan's hand. "I'd kiss you goodbye, but I don't want you to get incarcerated."

"That's funny," Stan gives a nod, too sleepy to put too much bite behind his words, sarcastic though they may be, "but if I may offer a rebuttal: go fuck yourself with a cactus."

"I can't believe you didn't want to do debate team with me in high school," Kyle smirks a bit and Stan can't help it. If he's already going to get fired, he might as well kiss Kyle's stupid doofus smile off his face.

"Love you," he smiles when he pulls away, and is made even giddier by the fact that Kyle seems to have been caught off guard by that.

"You too, dude," Kyle replies hazily as Stan gets out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder and piping hot coffee in hand. He waves and enters through the back of the school, where of course Jack is waiting for him, shifting back and forth on his feet like a toddler with a full bladder.

"Happy Monday, Jack," he raises his mug in a toast. He can't let the poor kid know he's worried; he looks worried enough for the both of them anyway.

"Mr. Marsh, I need to talk to you," he says sort of urgently and Stan's stomach drops.

"I figured as much," he heaves a resigned sigh and keeps walking toward the music room. Mrs. Gable doesn't have a homeroom class and she usually has Stan do all of her morning work, so he figures they're probably safe in her room for a little while.

"What's up?" he asks as he sets his bag down on top of the piano and downs a few mouthfuls of coffee. He kind of hates the taste of coffee without Bailey's in it, and that sure as shit would've made the morning a fuck of a lot easier, but Kyle was watching him closely this morning for exactly that reason.

Not that he'd ever drink on the job, though.

"Sam wasn't at church yesterday," Jack frowns and draws his fingers through the dust on his timpani covers. "I asked his mom where he was and she said he'd been really upset the last few days and wouldn't come out of his room. And he got into a fight with his brother or something? I don't know, she asked me to pray for him with her, and it kind of got weird really fast and I said I had to go."

Stan snorts, because he can see Jack getting roped into praying for a kid he doesn't even like, awkwardly squished against Sam's mom and wondering when it'd be over.

"Dude, maybe he'll leave you be," Stan offers, hoping that's true for the both of them. It would be just fucking ducky if this turned into a non-issue.

"I don't know," Jack shifts, and then looks up at Stan with a worried frown. "I don't like it."

"Well," Stan shrugs. "My offer stands, dude. Say the word, and I'll tell someone about it. Who's he have for homeroom?"

Getting the kid in trouble for potentially wanting to hurt Jack _before_ he can get Stan in trouble for being gay in front of him (or whatever) would diminish his problems considerably. Plus, it's not like there's not a chance that this kid could pose a real threat.

"No, don't—" Jack bites down on his lips before continuing with, "I don't want him to get in trouble if he hasn't done anything."

"Don't worry, dude," Stan shakes his head. "I'll just tell his homeroom teacher to keep an eye on him or something."

Jack sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "He's in Leadership with Mrs. Rosenthal."

Stan rolls his eyes, "Of course he is."

His mom's probably breeding him to be a meddling asshole, just like she is. Stan's just enough of a rebellious thirteen-year-old twat himself to actively hate kids in student government. He tells Jack he'll take care of it, and even though Jack looks the slightest bit reticent, he thanks him anyway.

When the bell rings and the morning announcements are finished, Stan makes his way over to the leadership classroom. He doesn't like the fact that he's essentially tattling, but he's a teacher… sort of. And even if he didn't like Jack as much as he does, he's still obligated to report potential threats.

There are kids out and about as he walks, hanging up posters for the 'welcome back winter dance' it looks like, and Stan recognizes Sam as one of them. He feels a pull in his gut when the kid stops and looks at him with hardened confusion on his face, and suddenly Stan gets to wondering if he's not wasting his time. This kid doesn't look dangerous, exactly. In fact he looks…

Jesus, he looks kind of scared.

He stops in front of him, hands in his pockets and head cocked, and asks "Hey, Sam, are you all right?"

Sam looks like this is the question he's been waiting all his life for someone to ask him, and promptly tells his poster-hanging partner he'll see her back in the classroom before he asks Stan if he can talk to him.

"Sure, dude," Stan nods, eyebrows pinched together a bit, but… if he can talk to this kid, maybe reason with it, he might not end up getting fired after all, and maybe he can save Jack a bit of grief too. They go back to the music classroom, and Sam shuts the door behind them before he folds his skinny arms over his chest and looks at Stan with a determined stare.

And then he starts crying and Stan's sort of at a loss from there.

Holy fuck, he's _really _crying—that open sobbing that really only comes from someone who's all broken up and needing to be fixed. Stan should know; that's usually the only kind of crying he gets around to doing. What's worse is that now Sam's trying to talk through it. Stan's only getting bits and pieces through the sobs, and in fact the only thing he distinctly hears is "I think I'm gay".

Oh.

_Oh_.

Stan fights not to say it out loud, but that makes a _shit-ton_ of sense. He feels kind of stupid now, but that would explain the hostility and everything. He remembers being a total dick to the openly bisexual Kenny in high school when they'd get drunk together, because somehow his unconscious mind just knew that he liked guys a little more than he should.

And that made the rest of him angry, just like this kid is.

"Uh," he shifts a little and goes over to pat him on the shoulder. "It's, uh… it's okay, dude."

Because he actually can't think of anything else to say. It's not the end of the world? It gets better? Sucking cock is absolutely fantastic wait until you get to take a crack at it? Nothing seems to fit. He settles on, "You're gonna be okay, all right?" and that only makes Sam cry harder. Stan doesn't blame him; if someone had had the foresight to tell him that when he'd been a kid, his life probably would've been a lot different.

Fuck, this poor kid. Stan sits there with his hand on his shoulder until Sam's sobs subside and he's able to breathe again.

"My parents are gonna kill me," he finally rasps out.

"You don't have to tell anyone if you don't want," Stan shakes his head, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. This is a delicate situation, after all. "It's your business, dude, and it's only their business if you want it to be."

"Do _your_ parents know?" Sam tosses out, and it's a little too sassy for how cool Stan thinks he's being, but he lets it slide. The kid's in emotional upheaval, after all.

"My mom does," Stan nods. "And she still loves me, dude. Everyone I've told does. I mean, there're certain people I'll probably never tell, but that's just it, y'know? _You_ get to control it."

He's actually not the foremost authority on being gay, but he thinks he might be all this kid has, so he doesn't say anything other than that.

"I'm scared, though," Sam admits softly, and Stan just replies with a simple, "I know."

Because he does know. And what's more, he knows that the only reason he's not as scared as he feels he should be is because he's got some pretty fucking amazing friends.

"Do you have anyone you could maybe talk to about this?" he asks. "Like, people your own age?"

"Not really," Sam sniffs. "People don't really like me."

"All right, well," Stan folds his arms over his chest, trying not to give away his lack of surprise on that front. "You know Jack, right?"

"Yeah," Sam shrugs.

"Dude, you should talk to him," Stan offers. "He's super cool, and I bet he'll make you feel better about all this."

"No thank you," Sam shakes his head. "He's got a stupid face."

"Oh?" Stan laughs a little. There's nothing about the way Sam says that that makes Stan think he's being sincere, and he laughs even harder when Sam jumps in to explain, "He smiles too much… makes me wanna punch him."

Stan is of the mind that, as soon as you start thinking someone's face is stupid, you're pretty much lost to the world. He tries not to grin, but goddamn it's so fucking obvious he just wants to hit himself over the head.

"Just give him a chance, dude," he says, even though he knows he's doing a shitty job of covering up his smile. "And if you're not gonna talk to him about this, then maybe just tell him you're not gonna kick his ass or anything like that. You've been staring him down like crazy, dude. You gotta knock that shi—stuff off."

"I have not been staring," Sam flushes a little and Stan just nods, like he's sympathetic to the fact that Sam doesn't want to admit he's got a crush.

"Hey, whatever," he holds up his hands. "Worse comes to worse, you come out of this with a friend, okay?" And when Sam rolls his eyes adds, "Oh god I know, I'm the most awful human on the planet. Dude, get back to class before everyone thinks you've been abducted by aliens or some shit."

Sam looks like he's just been slapped in the face, so Stan goes on, "Don't tell anyone I curse. And, dude, if you need anything else… don't hesitate, okay? I'm always here."

Sam smiles at this and nods before he tosses out an awkward "thanks". Then he gives Stan a quick hug, one too quick for Stan to even think about returning, before he hurries out of the room. He's left thunderstruck in the middle of the room until Mrs. Gable walks in a few minutes later and gives him a look like he just dropped in from outer space.

"What's got you grinning like an idiot?" she asks as she unties her scarf with her long, bony fingers.

"I think I just helped someone," Stan finds himself grinning like an idiot. His endeavors to help people don't generally ever turn out. It's too early to tell, he knows, but he thinks this one might be different. Mrs. Gable just nods, pretending to be sympathetic, before she asks if he got around to checking the rat traps she'd left in one of the practice rooms over the break.

When he locks himself in the empty, soundproof room with the empty traps, Stan flips open his phone and, after deciding to ignore the mess of texts he has from Shelly, calls Kyle, thrumming with excitement. He's probably with his mom, so he doesn't answer, so Stan leaves a message.

"Hey, so when I you come get me, I kind of want to talk to you… I think I may want to go back to school and get credentialed to teach for real. Uh, life decisions on a cup of coffee and two hours of sleep, I know, but… I don't know. Anyway, tell your mom I say hi. Love you… and her. Um, okay. Bye."

He scrolls through Shelly's texts after that, most of which, when strung together, lead Stan to believe she's having a musical crisis and can't come up with a song list for the DJ at her reception. He decides to let her sweat it out a little and goes to help Mrs. Gable set up for the day. He feels happy and good, and he really hopes the feeling will stick around, at least for a little bit.

When Jack walks into second period, he makes a beeline for Stan.

"I don't think you have to talk to Mrs. Rosenthal," he says.

Stan just looks up from numbering the measures on his music, trying like hell to keep his smile at bay, and replies with a simple, "Oh?"

"Yeah," Jack beams, like whatever he's talking about is just the damndest thing, "He asked if he could be my partner for our history project last period. I'm not even that good at history."

"Man, see?" Stan actually does smile at that. "I told you didn't need to worry about anything."

The smile stays with him all day, and the happy feelings even make him so bold that he greets Kyle with a big, lip-smacking kiss when he comes to pick him up that afternoon. Kyle looks a little surprised, to say the least, but he covers it up quickly with a dorky smirk as he starts up the car.

"So, I guess you didn't get fired," he says. "Thank god, I can finally sleep again."

"Ass," Stan laughs and shoves him as they leave the parking lot. "How's your mom?"

"Fine," Kyle nods. "I think it might be a bit before we know for sure, but the doctor was really optimistic. Plus, she seems like she's doing a lot better, which is good."

"Dude, awesome!" Stan beams. "What a relief."

"Seriously," Kyle lets out a breath and even chuckles a little bit. "I don't think I've ever seen my dad hug her that much," he drifts off for a moment, and Stan gets the feeling he's just been reassuring himself all day that his mom is okay, that she's going to be fine.

"So," Kyle begins, presumably before Stan can say anything on his own, "you want to go back to school or something?"

"Uh, yeah," Stan laughs slightly and grabs at the back of his neck. He hasn't gotten much further than the 'I want it' stage, and he knows Kyle will help him put it into perspective. He's just not quite sure how, but he supposes the 'how' part of Kyle's job anyway. "You don't think it's stupid, do you?" he just asks.

"No," Kyle shakes his head. "If it's what you want and you think that's what you need to do, I think you should. I mean, look at yourself right now," he reaches over and pulls the visor down in front of Stan's face. Stan catches his reflection and lets his face twist into an open grimace. God, his happy face is more unimaginably dorky than he'd originally thought.

"Oh god," he mutters and pushes the mirror back up.

"Dude, you're fucking happy," Kyle gives a disbelieving laugh. "Like, _happy_-happy? If there's a thing in the world that makes you smile like that, I say go for it."

No, this isn't right. Kyle's supposed to do things like talk sense into him. Going to school… fuck, he hasn't been in learning mode since he was eighteen, and even if he thought he could buckle down and do this, he doesn't have the money to do that. Kyle's supposed to bring him back off the crazy cliff and guide him back to reality. Reality: that place where he's a college drop-out who can play piano and lives with his mom. Even if he had the stones to actually go for it, he's at a pretty big disadvantage.

"Man, it's just a thought," Stan sighs and slumps in his seat.

"Oh, hell no," Kyle reaches over and pokes Stan in the fattiest part of his gut. "You're not talking yourself out of this one, fucker."

"It's stupid, Kyle, never mind," Stan squirms away from Kyle's fingers, which go to poke him again as he pulls off to the side of the road and stops the car. They're not even a block away from the school, goddamn it.

"What's stupid about it," Kyle says more than asks. "Aside from the fact that you _know_ I'd tell you it was stupid if it really was."

"I can't afford school, Kyle," Stan insists first off, even though he knows it's a feeble excuse. Yeah, he doesn't want to be in debt forever, but financial aid was good to him before, so it may very well be again.

"Okay," Kyle frowns and looks at the steering wheel. "You know you're not going anywhere if you stay here, though, right?"

The words hit Stan hard in the chest.

He knew that. He knows he can't stay here playing piano and being not-quite-a-teacher forever, but he's twenty-three and that seemed good enough for now. He's not good at anything else, though—he's messy and disorganized, he can't type very fast or do anything that's intrinsically useful, and the thought of getting a 'real' job, like his mom or his dad, makes his chest constrict just a little bit.

He likes being at the school and working with the kids, but playing background piano and sometimes taking over for the class when Mrs. Gable's vertigo kicks in is not how he wants to live out the rest of his life.

At the very least, he wants his own class to teach.

"What am I supposed to do then, dude?" Stan runs his hands over his face.

"You're talking about going back to school!" Kyle exclaims through another laugh. "Dude, you have your solution. I mean, you'd have to cut back on your hours here, or… find a new job, probably, but you'd have a shitload of experience under your belt for a credential program, right? They love that kind of shit."

"Gah," Stan groans and twists around in his seat. All this talk of upheaval makes him want to crawl under his seat and never come out, despite the fact that he knows Kyle wouldn't let him pout for more than ten seconds.

"Hey, come on," Kyle rolls his eyes and unbuckles his seatbelt so he can lean over and attempt to pull Stan into a hug as best he can. "Dude, if you're thinking about it, that's something, okay? Like, no rush, you know? For what it's worth, though, I think you'd make a pretty badass fulltime teacher."

Stan sniffs a little and looks over, only now realizing just how close Kyle's squished his face up against his, and asks, "You really think?"

Kyle smiles, softly this time, and replies, "Yeah, I really do." He kisses him then, and Stan kind of melts into it because it's nice to have someone who's retardedly supportive of him, y'know? It makes him feel good.

It doesn't last, of course, because Shelly chooses that exact moment to call Stan and ruin a perfectly nice moment.

"What, Shelly," Stan answers as Kyle climbs off of him and starts the car up again. "What could you possibly want."

"You never got back to me, asshole!" Shelly shoots back.

"I was at _work_, Shelly," Stan practically yelps. "You know, that thing that people go to that usually involves a lot more than organizing paint swatches?"

Kyle fiddles with his iPod while Shelly starts talking, "Don't be a shithead, you're not at work anymore". Kyle puts on the Talking Heads, and starts singing along, just to be a shit.

"_I can't seem to face up to the facts_—"

"No, but how do you know I wasn't in the middle of something?"

"_I'm tense and nervous and I—"_

"You answered, didn't you?"

"_Can't relax_—"

"Yeah, well, for your information—"

"_I can't sleep 'cause my bed is on fire_—"

"I was in the middle of something," Stan finishes and reaches over to turn down the stereo as he mouths 'knock it off', even though he knows that's not going to happen.

"_Don't touch me I'm a real live wire-"_ Kyle continues, louder of course as Shelly asks, "Yeah, Stan, you were doing plenty, I'm sure."

"_Boner Killer_," Kyle leans over and shouts, practically into the receiver, and Stan drops the phone as he tries to get Kyle to shut the fuck up. This doesn't work, of course, so he's serenaded with a beautiful repeat chorus of, "Shelly is a _Boner Killer, Qu'est Que c'est, fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better—_" as he grabs all over the floor for his phone.

"Sorry," Stan mutters and shuts off the radio as Kyle finishes the chorus anyway at the top of his lungs, "I think I'm in love with a retard."

"Is he bigger than me?" Kyle shoots back the completing line and gives Stan a cheeky smile when he gives him a warning look. While he's elated that Kyle would probably sit there and quote through the rest of AFI's Hundred Funniest Movies with him if he gave him the chance, the fact remains that he is on the phone with his bitchy sister who did effectively just kill his boner and, as a result, most of his good mood.

"Stan, stop fucking around, I need your help, okay?" Shelly sighs, very fed up, on the other end of the phone. "The DJ needs a list of songs by tomorrow morning, I have no idea about any of this stuff, and Eric refuses to help me."

"Huh," Stan slumps and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. "What a cock."

"Stan!"

"Ugh, fine," Stan rolls his eyes. "I'll help you when you get home, okay? But I don't want to hear any bitching about what I pick, either. "

"Fine," Shelly shoots back. "I'll be home around six."

"Good," Stan shrugs and subconsciously figures that he and Kyle will have about two hours to themselves. "I'll brainstorm some ideas until then."

There's silence for a moment before Shelly eventually pipes up with, "You're not going to do that, are you."

"I am not," Stan shakes his head. "See you at six."

When they get back to Stan's, Kyle shrugs off his computer bag and sits on the couch while Stan lets Trapper and Hawkeye out to pee. He also feeds them a few treats, because he's back into a good mood, before going over to where Kyle's sitting and running his fingers through the dark red fluff on his head.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Nah," Kyle shakes his head and opens his eyes. They're all glinty and full of mischief, and Kyle takes advantage of Stan being distracted to pull him down on top of him.

They kiss, and it's amazing like always, and it turns into Kyle shifting them so Stan's lying flat on the couch, and then they're making out. They're making out on Stan's mom's couch, dry humping and moaning desperately against each other like they're fifteen or something. Before Stan knows it, Kyle's got not only his work shirt unbuttoned, but his slacks too.

"Eager much?" Stan laughs, and he's answered by Kyle pressing a searing kiss to his lips and ridding him of his pants entirely.

Maybe there's something to that whole 'redheads are hornier' rumor he's always heard. Red was sure never shy about living up to that one.

Stan's just about to push his hands up Kyle's shirt when there's a knock on the door, followed by the very telling voice of Randy Marsh calling, "Stan? Stan, open up, it's dad."

"Are you shitting me?" Kyle rests his forehead on Stan's just as Stan shouts, "Just a second" and pushes Kyle off of him.

"I swear to god, cock-blocking is a fucking genetic defect in this family," he seethes as he goes to put his pants back on.

"Let's hope whatever kids we have aren't biologically yours," Kyle shakes his head, like it's just the kind of comment you brush off willy-nilly like that. It actually gives Stan enough pause to stop mid-fly zip and look at Kyle with mild confusion.

"You want kids?"

"Dude, joke," Kyle raises an eyebrow and stands. "I'll be in the bathroom," he says and disappears upstairs just as Stan goes to answer the door. Randy pushes in past him without saying hello, a stack of CDs and records in one hand and a six pack in the other, both of which he promptly sets down on the coffee table before he turns to Stan with a proud smile.

"So, Shelly says we're gonna help her with her music, huh?" he rubs his hands together. "Man, this is gonna be fun. You and your old man picking out songs for your sister's wedding, knocking back a few beers, watching a little football…" he catches himself upon actually looking at Stan and scratches the back of his head.

"Napping, dad," Stan shakes his head and claps his hand over his neck, where he knows Kyle just bit to life some old hickeys. "I came home to nap before Shelly got home."

All he can hear is Kyle's strained, dorky voice on a loop in his head, singing '_Boner Killer' _like there's no tomorrow, and it's making him unsure of whether he's going to laugh or cry. He just wants to fuck Kyle, and he doesn't know why this is so much to ask.

"Well, I borrowed some of the good stuff from your Uncle Jimbo," Randy picks up a few CDs off of the table. "I don't know what you kids listen to, but I do know you can never go wrong playing Free Bird at a wedding."

"Oh, god," Stan runs his hands over his face. "Did she ask you to come help?"

"Yeah, she said you'd be here," Randy nods and grabs a beer off of its plastic ring. "Catch."

Stan does, and cracks the top and chugs a good portion of it back before his dad's even had the chance to open up his own.

"What're you doing sleeping in the middle of the day anyway?" Randy asks as he takes the first sip off the top of his beer.

"Didn't really sleep well last night," Stan shakes his head.

"Uh-huh," Randy nods, an obnoxious look on his face. "That's because you and Kyle still have _sleepovers_. Y'know, most guys stop doing that in high school, Stan. You boys'd better cool it; girls'll start thinking you're _funny_."

There it is. It's the perfect opportunity. Stan could just say 'Yeah, maybe we are funny' and that would be that. The lions would lay down with lambs, the mighty would strike fear into the hearts of the wicked, he could be out and over and done with it without anymore grief.

But nothing comes out. Instead, he just shakes his head and gulps back his beer. He doesn't care that he looks like a mess right now, that his hair's all sticking up or that his shirt and slacks are all rumpled and his neck is dotted with fading hickeys. The only thing he remotely cares about is the fact that his balls are about to turn blue and fall the fuck off, and that the only person on the planet who seems to care about this is undoubtedly upstairs in his bathroom, jerking off.

"You know, Stan," Randy says thoughtfully and sits on the couch. "We oughta go out tonight, just the two of us. We could hit up the new Hooters that opened up at the mall."

"I'm not going to Hooters with you, dad," Stan says very frankly.

"Okay, what about that bar—"

"I'm not going to go out picking up women with you, dad!" Stan snaps, which makes Randy's eyes go wide and a door open and shut upstairs. Randy, of course, just shakes it off and stands again, coming over to clap Stan on the shoulder and give him a knowing smile.

"I know what this is," he says. "You don't think your old man's still got it. Fair enough. You'll never know until you give me a chance, though, I'm a pretty good wingman when you—"

"Dad!" Stan snaps again.

"Stan, I'm just worried about you, all right?" Randy frowns now. "You know, you're so emotional about these things, I just want you to remember that dating can be fun!"

"Yeah, well what if I don't want to date girls, dad?" Stan shouts this time, only realizing how loud he was when Randy shuts up altogether. There's a stretch of silence that lasts for Stan doesn't know how long before Randy pipes up again, softer this time, more resigned.

"What're you saying, Stan?"

"I think you know, dad," Stan mutters, looking anywhere but directly at his dad.

"Right," Randy nods and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. "Well, you… you enjoy the beer, Stanley. I'm just gonna go and hang with your uncle tonight. Tell your mom and your sister I said hi, and I'll see you guys later."

Stan doesn't move, just stands there with his arms folded across his chest as he hears his dad leave. He doesn't slam the door or anything; it's all very civil and it's kind of unsettling. Sometimes Stan finds himself wishing that his family yelled like Kenny's or Kyle's did. At least you know where you stand with a family like that.

"Hey," he hears Kyle say from beside him. "He'll come around, dude. He loves you."

"Whatever, dude," Stan shakes his head and tucks himself up against Kyle. He needs a hug, and he will get one even if he has to take it by force. "Let's go upstairs, my balls are about to fall off."

"Charming," Kyle smiles into Stan's hair as he wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders. He holds him there for a second, and Stan appreciates it. Then, of course, he tells Kyle to cut the shit and drags him upstairs, where the impatient fuckhead doesn't even let them get to the bed, just shucks his and Stan's pants and boxers, wraps Stan's legs around his waist, and fucks up into him against the door.

Stan's grateful no one's home; he can make whatever noises he likes, as loud as he wants to make them. This is good, because being cockblocked twice makes both makes Kyle pretty aggressive, which in turn makes Stan pretty vocal. At the very, _very_ least, he's glad for the distraction.

On every other level, he's rendered completely incapable of thought as Kyle slams up into him so hard he's pretty sure he can feel the whole wall shake.

When Shelly gets home, Stan and Kyle are spread out, immobile, on Stan's bed, and Kyle has to do a fuckload of convincing to make him change his clothes and go downstairs.

"Come with me," Stan yawns and pulls his messy, spunked-up shirt off of himself. Kyle sits up and pulls him close, wrapping his arms around his middle and pressing a few kisses into his stomach. He's been surprisingly nuzzly these last few days, and Stan has to admit that he's pretty pleased about it.

He loans Kyle a shirt, keeping the old MIT one for himself because he likes it and it makes Kyle grin to see him wear it, and they pull on the rest of their clothes. Kyle looks at Stan as he slips on one of his comfy flannel over-shirts and laughs.

"What?" Stan laughs back a little.

"You're such a dyke, dude," Kyle shakes his head and starts trying to flatten out Stan's hair. Stan sticks out his tongue and ducks out of Kyle's touch.

They go downstairs to see Shelly looking at the stack of CDs and records on the coffee table, shaking her head and tossing most of them aside. She must've heard them come down the stairs because she turns back to shake her head at them.

"I know you said I have to listen to you, but… I'm not okay with any of this," she says in a warning tone.

"Ugh, they're Uncle Jimbo's," Stan rolls his eyes and moves to put the remainder of the six-pack in the fridge. "Dad brought 'em over."

"Oh Jesus," Shelly sighs and flops down onto the couch. "How the hell'd you get rid of him?"

"Oh, that was easy," Stan sits back beside her. "He tried to go out picking up girls with me, and I told him I didn't want to. Like, ever."

"I don't blame you," Shelly snorts. "I wouldn't want to go pick up guys with mom."

"Shel," Stan gives her an imploring look and cocks his head. Shelly looks at him for a moment, studying him closely, before Kyle loses it and shouts, "He came out! Fuck!"

Shelly's eyes go big, and for a minute Stan actually thinks she might actually find a way to turn this into an unpleasant taunting session. Yeah, the only thing he'd ever needed to say was "I'm gay" and he could've been rid of Randy a long time ago—he's already thought all this. It was painfully easy, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," is what Shelly says instead and, in a surprising upset, actually hugs him. Stan looks over at Kyle, who's sitting down at the coffee table, and mouths 'what the fuck?', to which Kyle responds with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Uh, Shelly?" he asks. "Shelly, what's happening?"

"I'm hugging you, asshole," Shelly replies. "That's fucked up, what dad did. I'm sorry."

"Shelly, I don't like this," Stan just says, which makes her roll her eyes and shove him away.

"Fine," she mutters before looking over at Kyle. "You tell your family yet?"

Kyle looks up, a little surprised to have been addressed by her without her usual insult tailing it, and shifts a little before he shakes his head. "No," he says. "Too much going on with them right now. I don't want to pile on. I'm actually all tapped out on the dramatics, believe it or not."

Shelly heaves a sigh and kicks her feet up onto the coffee table.

"Well, I was supposed to ask you both if you'd mind being in my wedding," she says, "But if you're both on your periods right now or whatever, I'll talk to you about it later."

Stan frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks over at her. He studies her for a second, and so does Kyle, and when they look at each other to confirm that she's being serious, Stan asks, "Why would you want us in your wedding?"

"Because!" Shelly falters a little. "I need a Maid of Honor and Eric needs a Best Man… for the rings and things. And we don't… have a lot of friends, so I thought I'd ask the two of you."

Stan's actually kind of touched, as stupid as it is. Kyle looks a little closer to teetering over the brink of laughter, which Stan quickly stamps out with a look. He turns back to Shelly and, with a smile, says, "Yeah, dude. I'll be your bridesman or whatever," and then looks at Kyle and shakes his head. "As long as I don't have to walk down the aisle with that faggot."

Kyle's face pinches into a frown as he takes Stan's empty beer can from earlier off of the table and beams it off his head.

"God, no," Shelly shakes her head through a laugh. "Just be up front with us, hand us our rings, that's it. No speech or actual effort is required on either of your parts."

"Excellent," Kyle slaps the table. "Just the way I like it. I accept."

"Good," Shelly smiles, and it's genuine and for once not filled up with malice or anger or selfishness. She then leans forward and scoops up all of their uncle's music in her arms. "Now get this out of my sight before I burn it."

Stan laughs, "So that's a no to Free Bird?"

"That's a fuck no," Shelly nods.

Stan can still count on one hand the number of pleasant evenings he's spent with his sister, but he's not in the right mindset to care too much about that right now. As they go through list after list, CD and genre after CD and genre, Stan's more than willing to take a good night for exactly what it is.

* * *

><p><strong>Quick update is quick. <strong>

**A thank you as always to all readers, all reviewers, and everyone in between. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

January passes by way too quickly for Stan's liking, and getting into February is even more infuriating than ever because it's that special time of year when everything is doused in red and covered in hearts. It's not even two weeks away and already Stan's getting bombarded by a litany of asinine greeting cards and commercials for diamonds and shit.

"Man, I'm glad you suck my dick for free," he finds himself muttering as he and Kyle pass a rather large poster of a man and woman gazing longingly at each other over a giant diamond necklace.

"Truth be told, I'm saving up for a yacht," Kyle tosses back absently and sips loudly at his smoothie. They're in the mall, looking for a wedding gift, because even though Shelly told him not to worry about a gift Stan still doesn't want Cartman to have any reason to be an asshole about it. They're registered at places like Williams-Sonoma and Pottery Barn, both of which apparently slap zeros on their price tags like they've got gold pouring out of their assholes.

Stan's in education, okay? He's not exactly rolling in the Benjamins. Lincolns, maybe… and not the paper kind either.

"You're gonna be saving up for a long, long time, dude," Stan smirks as they pass yet another jewelry store. "It's bad enough I've gotta buy something for this demonic union, now I've gotta save up to get your high maintenance ass a yacht on top of everything else? Talk about pressure."

"Yeah, well, your sister and fatass aren't blowing you, so I think I get first priority," Kyle snarks and stops right in front of Victoria's Secret. "You could always get her something in there," he suggests, and Stan has to fight with everything in him not to vomit right there in the walkway.

"You don't get lingerie for your sister, dude!" he exclaims and instead pulls Kyle along by the sleeve of his shirt (a flannel one that he stole from Stan yesterday morning and has refused to give back, thank you) before adding, "That's a thousand different levels of creepy."

"Well, you're not coming up with anything," Kyle frowns. "Fuck, I'm stuck at the mall on a Friday afternoon and I'm _not_ thirteen, what do you want from me?"

"Help?" Stan offers.

"Fuck you, you're the one who waited until the last three goddamned hours before your sister's rehearsal dinner to get her a gift," Kyle points out, and he's right. Stan's been avoiding it like the plague in the hopes that either Cartman or Shelly would piss the other one off beyond all comprehension and send them packing for good. This isn't happening, though, and now it's looking like he's probably going to have to go into Macy's and spring for a high-quality cheese grater or something.

Plus, on top of this he's had to help Shelly with every other fucking aspect of this apocalyptic event, has started looking at schools, has started working out with both his mom and with Kyle to slim down for wedding pictures (which is not working as well as anyone wants it to), and to top it all off there's the little matter of his father not having talked to him in about three weeks.

He didn't think having his dad flat out not speak to him would be an issue. In fact, it's been a dream of his. What's bothering him is the fact that he's stopped talking to Stan because he likes guys—that's what's fucked up beyond all reason.

"Hey, c'mere," Kyle says and drapes an arm across Stan's shoulders. Man, he must look really fucking down if it's enough for Kyle to notice. He's getting better at picking up on Stan's feelings and stuff, but still.

"I'm fine," Stan mutters and pulls Kyle in by his waist. Normally they're a little more reticent to touch in public, just because they don't want to have to deal with dirty looks or anything, but right now everything's a little overwhelming and it's nice to have Kyle close.

"Come on," Kyle tugs him toward Sears. "I think my mom said they've got a kitchen appliance sale going on."

Stan smiles, because if left to his own devices he knows he would still be curled up under one of those fancy ceramics displays at Williams Sonoma, saying last rites for his bank account.

They buy a salad spinner, the nicest one they can find, because it's at least cheaper than anything else they can find and Kyle points out it's yet another way to subtly remind Cartman that he's a fat sack of shit, which convinces Stan to buy it more than anything.

"Fuck," Stan sighs as they leave the store and head through the parking lot toward his car. "My sister's getting married tomorrow."

It's something that's been in the back of his mind for a while now, that his _sister_, unbearable as she is, is getting _married_.

"Like, I know they've been together for a while and everything," he continues as Kyle kicks disinterestedly at an empty can of Squirt. "But, like… ever hear of a waiting period?"

"Dude, I think it's different if you've been together as long as they have," Kyle shrugs. "Five years, right? And they've been living together for how long?"

"Two years, I think," Stan yawns. Fuck, he had a long day at work and now he's going to have a long night around his and Cartman's families. This is going to be absolutely hideous.

"Right, so it's like they're married anyway," Kyle concludes. "You think Shelly hasn't been secretly planning this for the last two years? And Cartman's probably just grateful he's guaranteed someone who'll fuck him on a regular basis for the rest of his life."

"Aw, dude," Stan wrinkles his nose and gives Kyle a pleading look. The last thing he wants to be thinking about is his sister and Eric Cartman having sex right now, especially when Kyle's all smiley and pink in the cheeks from the cold and wearing that big ugly trapper hat he hasn't worn in years and years. He tries to conjure up more pleasant thoughts, like Kyle pinning him to the mattress and working him over until he's little more than an incoherent mass of human.

That would be just… _aces _right now.

"Whatever," Kyle just laughs and shoves lightly at Stan's shoulder with his. "I'd marry you after two months, dude."

Stan feels his face flush just about every shade of red. He knows Kyle sometimes says things without consideration for how Stan might take them. Kyle's still not great with affection, so to compensate he often says stupid stuff like "I'd marry you" because he thinks that's what he's supposed to say. Stan's never quite sure what to make of things like that; in this case he takes to rolling his eyes and giving Kyle a shove back.

"Fuck off, you would not marry me," he says.

"Legality aside, sure I would," Kyle shrugs and then wraps an arm around Stan's shoulders when they get to the car. He extends a hand out in front of them and looks off somewhere far, far away, "Imagine what our lives could be, Stan—you and me, a studio apartment complete with a futon, hot and cold running water, and a lock only you and I have the key to."

"Dude, marriage is supposed to suck," Stan laughs and ducks out of Kyle's arm so he can get in the car, "That sounds awesome."

"Well," Kyle says as he slips into the passenger's seat, "maybe that's our lot in life: we do what other people do, except we don't call it what other people call it and so we have a more awesome time doing it."

"Fair enough," Stan concedes, "Being non-conventionally defined monogamous relationship hasn't come back to bite us in the ass yet."

"Even if 'non-conventional monogamous partner' is a mouthful when I'm introducing you at parties," Kyle nods as they pull out of the parking lot and start heading back to Stan's.

"Certainly befitting of other aspects of this relationship, then," Stan tosses back, and even matches Kyle's "hey-o!" when he goes in for a high-five.

When they get back to Stan's, they find his mom and Shelly madly rushing around in an attempt to get ready, like this is the actual wedding itself that they're about to go to. Kyle intercepts the salad spinner and dashes up to put it in Stan's room before Shelly can see it, while Stan gets dragged into his mom's room to help her choose an outfit.

"Mom, I know I'm dating a guy and everything," he begins as she shows him her first choice, which is a nice sweater and some pants, "But I hate to break it to you that I'm not _that _kind of gay."

"Honey, I know that," his mom shakes her head as she starts fastening in her earrings. "I'm wearing this, I just thought I'd save you from Hurricane Shelly out there."

"Oh," he says, a little dumbstruck. "Thanks."

"Also, I wanted to talk to you."

"There it is," Stan nods and sits down on her bed. It's got about a thousand pillows on it and it makes Stan want to disappear in it forever and never come out. "What'd I do now."

"Nothing," his mom sighs and sits down beside him. "It's just—if your father doesn't come tonight, it's not your fault. He's being a pill about this, it's his deal, not yours."

"Ah, fuck," Stan mutters aloud and slaps his hands over his eyes. That's the trouble with Kyle: he manages to distract Stan from the issues at hand just well enough to get him not to care, only for everyone to remind him not too long after that he's a piece of shit.

"No," his mom just insists. "Your father's the one who's the asshole here, not you."

As nice and as accurate a statement as it is, it doesn't actually do much to make Stan feel better. He sits up a bit, just in time for Shelly to come in and see them sitting on the bed and roll her eyes.

"Why are you guys sitting around?" she practically whines. "We have to be at the restaurant in an hour and a half."

"Oh god, we'll never get there in time," Stan deadpans, only to have his mom smack him on the arm.

"Stan, if you don't shower and put on some nice clothes, I will castrate you _and_ your assheaded fuckface boyfriend, got it?"

He thinks about being helpful for about half a second before he just shrugs and says, "I don't have a boyfriend."

Expectedly, this only serves to enrage her further, so even though he insists that he showered this morning, she pushes him into the bathroom and almost refuses to let him out until Trapper and Hawkeye start barking like crazy and she finally relents.

"Jesus," he mutters as he wrenches open the door and looks down at where his boys are wagging their tails and grinning up at him happily. "Good boys," he says, and slips back into his room. The boys follow him, but he doesn't mind. This is going to be a ridiculously hectic night, he already knows, and he just wants some time to kick back with Kyle and his dogs before everything goes to shit.

Kyle appears to have already changed into a nicer shirt and a pair of jeans that aren't all torn up. He and Stan have been squirreling away extra clothes of theirs in each other's dressers since they were kids, with all the sleepovers they'd have and everything, but now it feels way more intimate than before. Either way, Kyle's face down on his bed and looking like that's where he's always belonged and it makes Stan's stomach clench pleasantly. He's also joined by Hawkeye after a moment, who drapes himself right over the small of Kyle's back and looks over at Stan happily as Kyle lets out a loud grunt.

"No, dude, you're not heavy at all," he mutters into Stan's pillow. Stan laughs and crouches down beside him, smoothing his hair back a bit before he kisses him lightly on the jaw. He's about to crawl up onto the bed and curl around Kyle for just a little bit before they have to go, but Shelly bangs on his door.

"You two better not be fucking," she shouts, and Stan colors because there's no way his mom didn't hear that. Kyle chuckles a bit and runs his fingers through Stan's hair, which makes Stan whimper just a little bit because there's no reason that a touch should feel this good.

"Promise me you'll kill me before I become a ritual sacrifice," he says softly. "Don't let me suffer."

"The moment shit starts going south, I'm jumping ship for Hooters," Kyle mumbles through a smile and pushes himself up so Hawkeye has to move. "If you're good I'll take you with me."

There's another thud on his door, followed quickly by Shelly's nagging, "Kyle, if you wear that ugly fucking shirt tonight, I will end you."

Stan doesn't bother mentioning that it's his ugly fucking shirt she's insulting, just stretches out next to Kyle ( '_oof'_ing when Trapper jumps up on top of him) and nuzzles up to him before Shelly decides to use a battering ram and drag them out of this bed by force.

They nap a little, only to be woken up a while later and herded to the car, where they kick at each other and share little smiles every time Shelly goes in on a bridezilla-type rant about flowers or the caterer or some shit.

She's avoiding the Randy issue; Stan can tell. Their mom probably gave her a long and thorough talking to before they left, and Stan has to say he's grateful. He (foolishly) promised Kyle he'd remain sober through tonight and tomorrow, and a minimal amount of bullshit is going to make that a fuck of a lot easier.

It's a hefty gathering, which Stan figured it would be. Shelly invited every last person on their family tree to this damn thing, not to mention most of the fucking town. Anyone who doesn't know her knows either Stan, their mom, or Cartman, and when you don't invite just about everyone in a town like South Park to your wedding _and_ your rehearsal dinner? Well… people talk.

Still, "Damn, Shel," Stan whistles as the four of them get out of the car. There's a giant banner on the front of the community center's banquet hall that reads _"Shelly and Eric: Into Forever" _

"'Into forever'?" Kyle asks, face all scrunched up like he's never seen anything more disgusting. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

"Our love," Shelly gives an impatient toss of her hair. "Through marriage we're giving it the opportunity to expand into forever."

"Mm," Stan nods and leans over to Kyle, "Kind of like her fiance's ass."

"I heard that, fucker!" Shelly shouts and looks like she's about ten seconds away from chasing Stan all the way into the hall. Luckily, Sharon gets in between them before anything can start.

"Honey, why don't you just go and see if Eric is here yet," she calmly says to Shelly. "And make sure your great aunt Celia has a place to sit, or she'll make me give her mine when I get in there."

Giving her a task seems to put Shelly back on point and distracts her enough to the point Stan falls out of her path. Stan chuckles with Kyle for a second while they watch Shelly walk toward the hall, only to be silenced a moment later when Sharon rounds on them.

"Now, you two listen to me," she says very carefully. "I've gotten her to stay off of your back about your father, and lord knows she's done her best to keep Eric at bay. You will both shut your mouths from this point until they are on that plane, heading for their honeymoon, you got that?"

Stan and Kyle both stare at her, wide-eyed, and nod.

"Now, that being said," she softens a bit, smiling like she didn't just lay down the _fucking_ law. "I liked that expanding into forever line. Very clever."

It's not until she turns and walks toward the hall herself that Stan inches a little closer to Kyle and says, very timidly, "They've gotten my mother. Those no good rat bastards have made her just as insane as them."

"Looks like it's just you and me now, soldier," Kyle nods and braces a hand on Stan's shoulder.

It's probably the most comforting thing Stan will hear all night.

When they get into the hall, there seems to be an inordinate amount of people there, despite the fact that Stan knew there would be. Most of the kids he knows from school are long gone now, but he sees a few that have stuck around: Craig is skulking in the corner with Tweek, while Bebe and Wendy—

Oh god, Wendy. Stan hides a little behind Kyle as he watches Wendy and Bebe talk like not a day's gone by since high school. It's stupid, but Stan feels a little like he's going to choke on his own tongue. They didn't have a particularly hideous final break-up or anything, and he knew she was going to be here. Hell, he'd sent out her invitation himself. It's just—Stan's hideously bad at hiding things from Wendy, and even if he and Kyle aren't hiding anything between them, he'd rather the focus be entirely off of him for tonight.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kyle asks when Wendy looks over at them and Stan ducks further behind him. "Dude, are you fucking hiding from your ex-girlfriend?"

"No, I'm just," Stan looks down at the floor, "attempting not to be seen."

"Fuckin' A, dude," Kyle moves so Stan's exposed and gives Wendy and Bebe a little wave. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing, she just, like," he feels himself bristle. "She doesn't know I'm… y'know."

"Half-a-fag?" Kyle offers. "Dude, who cares? My ex-girlfriend knows. _You_ told her."

"I know," he groans, because now Wendy and Bebe are coming over to talk to them and goddamn it why is he not holed up in his room with Kyle and his dogs right now?

"So, it's not like we have to go down on each other in front of them or anything," Kyle says through a smile as the girls get closer. "Jesus, I don't love you that much."

"Thanks, dickhole," he mutters as he rights himself just in time for Wendy to greet him brightly and pull him into a hug.

"Hey there, stranger," she says in that false, cordial way that Stan wishes the world would let him avoid.

"Hey, yourself," he says back and it kills him how awkward he is but goddamn, what do you say to the girl you used to sleep with when the guy you're currently fucking is standing right next to you? "What've you been up to?" is what he decides to go with, and he's not blind to the look Bebe just gave Kyle but it's all he could think to say, all right?

"I'm actually doing a master's program at DU right now," she replies through a positively winning smile. He's kept up with her on Facebook; he knows she was the president of her sorority and fed… Irish peasant children to the rich or some shit like that. Long story short: she spent her college years being the high school version of herself on, like, crack.

"That's awesome," he still smiles back at her. She's one of those people who's going to be running the world one day, and he figures he should always keep on her good side.

"How're you doing?" she asks now, and Stan fights very hard not to mention his drinking or the fact that he's living with his mom, or how he thought he'd at least be the fuck out of South Park by the time he was twenty-three.

"Uh, still working at the school," he nods a little, ignoring Kyle's entirely obvious eye-roll. "Just helping with the music and everything."

"We're fucking," Kyle just comes out and says, and it makes Bebe bark with laughter and stuns Wendy into a state of silent, utter amusement. Kyle rolls his eyes again when Stan gives him a pleading look, "You were going to tiptoe around it all night. Now they no, no harm done, we can get the fuck on with our lives. Bebe, how've you been?"

"After the last thirty seconds?" she smiles. "I'm fucking excellent."

"Wonderful!" Kyle exclaims and points toward the general direction of the bar, which is not so surprisingly manned by a very grouchy-looking Kenny. "I'm gonna go get drinks. Stan, you want anything?"

"Uh, Coke?" he asks and Kyle nods, leaving him at the mercy of both Wendy and Bebe who, though Wendy at least will never admit it, love hearing this kind of gossip.

Sex gossip.

"All right, Marsh," Bebe lays in. "Let's just get it out in the open: who's top, who's bottom? I have to know before this conversation progresses any further."

"Fantastic," Stan nods and, in what's probably way too dickish a move, turns right around to find a hole into which he might crawl and die.

He doesn't get too far before he feels the familiar touch of Wendy's hand on his shoulder and he stops. He'll always stop for Wendy, though; she's the first person he ever love-loved… or, at least the first person he'd ever admitted to love-loving.

"Hey," he says as he turns to look back at her. She's tall—about as tall as him, thanks to the heels she's wearing—and she regards him with the softest smile he's ever seen on that ridiculously pretty face. He misses her, sometimes. As much as Kyle loves him and understands him, there's parts of him Wendy gets that Kyle never will.

Granted, the parts that Kyle gets about him that Wendy will never even get to see greatly outnumber those, which probably says a lot more than Stan wants to admit right now.

"Stan, are you all right?" she asks, and Stan nods. She gives him a look at that and rests her hands on his shoulders. "Stan, it's me, all right? You don't have to lie to me or anything."

"I'm fine, Wendy," he says outright then.

"Things with Kyle are good?" she looks at him imploringly, and Stan nods back again.

"Yeah," he says, because it's true. He doesn't know why he didn't want Wendy to know that, but it feels good to say. "They're really good, actually."

This earns him a genuine smile as Wendy goes to cup his face in her soft hands. She studies him for a moment before shaking her head and pulling him into a hug. "I'm so glad for you," she hums, like she's been waiting to hear this all her life.

It kind of makes Stan uneasy, how cool she is with this. If he'd found out she'd been sleeping with Bebe or something, he'd be a little weirded out. "Uh, thanks," he pulls away a little too quickly and clears his throat.

"I imagine it feels really liberating," she says, smile still not gone. Stan's actually a little confused by that.

"Well, it's a little uncomfortable the first few times, but—"

"No, not that!" Wendy laughs and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. "I meant about… you know, about _liking guys_?"she mouths the last part, so as to avoid any possibility for word of mouth gossip to spread. Stan's kind of grateful for that, until he pieces together what she's trying to say and feels himself go beet red.

"Wha-what are you talking about?" he tries to play it off, and Wendy just rolls her eyes.

"Give me a little credit, Stan," she says frankly. "I always sort of figured you did. That you liked both, I mean. I'm just really happy you got to a point where you could come to terms with it."

"Oh, fucking _Christ_," Stan buries his face in his hands. Nope, this wouldn't be happening if everyone had just let him stay in his room.

"For God's sake, Stan," Wendy rolls her eyes. "Would you get a hold of yourself? I'm just telling you I'm happy for you, all right? Just take that for what it is and leave it at that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find your sister and tell her how _happy_ I am for her."

She punctuates this with an eye-roll, and then gives Stan a smile and a wink before she turns to leave him. He knows he should be happy that Wendy is happy for him, but all he can seem to focus on is the fact that someone thought he was obvious. Sure, that someone is Wendy and Wendy knows him inside and out, but he's not exactly thrilled to hear that he wasn't as good at hiding it as he'd hoped.

He goes up on his toes to look over at the bar; indeed Kyle is still there, talking to Kenny and also now what appears to be Butters. They're not too far away, which Stan thinks will make this a short journey.

However, moving through a crowd full of relatives you haven't seen since you were about twelve turns what should be thirty seconds into nearly an hour of stopping to catch up with each and every one of them. Distant uncles who clap him hard on the back and tell him how he should've kept playing football, little aunts who've shrunk considerably since he last saw them, and a few cousins who superficially rattle off their accomplishments of the last 'x' amount of years… by the time he gets to the bar, Stan's feeling tired and over-exposed and wanting nothing more than to hide in Kyle's chest.

"If I have to tell one more goddamned person that I'm 'weighing my options', I'm going to shoot myself," he says decidedly and takes a long drink out of the glass of Coke Kenny sets in front of him.

"I wouldn't recommend that," Kenny just shakes his head and sighs. "I can't believe I fucking agreed to this."

"Aw, it's not all bad," Butters shrugs and turns to look at the rest of the party. "I reckon if we got rid of the Cartman thing, it'd be a real good time."

"Dude, it's just everyone's parents and Stan's weird-ass family," Kenny mutters, and tosses out a "No offense," when Kyle and Stan sort of look at him.

"Ah, I just got a soft spot for gatherin's, I s'pose," Butters heaves a dreamy sigh. Stan knows he's only really here because Shelly's put him in charge of desserts.

"I thought Cartman makes you all nuts," Kyle gives a thoughtful frown as he sips at his Sprite. At least Kyle's staying sober with him, Stan thinks.

"If I know I'm gonna see him, I'm not so bad," Butters shakes his head. "Plus, thanks to Rocky Balboa over there, he knows to keep his distance."

"Damn straight," Kenny nods and goes in for a fist-bump, which Butters gladly gives him. It makes Stan inch a little closer to Kyle so that their arms are touching. It's not nearly enough, but it's something and that's better than nothing.

When it's time to sit down to actually eat, Stan's wishing Kyle would leave him be for ten seconds—just long enough for Kenny to pour him a shot of something, anything, and let him loosen up just a little bit. There are far too many people here, and it's making Stan's chest get all tight and his face get all hot.

He picks at his food, unable to look anywhere but the small mound of mashed potatoes he's constructing into an impressively phallic-looking thing that at least makes Kyle chuckle beside him. When he nudges him a moment later, concern all over his face, Stan takes a few bites of the duck or pheasant or whatever dickheaded bird they're serving him to appease Kyle and let him know he's not dying or anything.

The room is filled with an overwhelming amount of chatter, and it's getting Stan to that very uneasy place, even though no one's actually talking to him. Kyle's talking to Stan's mom about his mom, how she wasn't feeling up to coming tonight and how she didn't want to be a 'party pooper', and suddenly Stan finds himself thinking about how nice it would be to be chilling on the Broflovski's couch with Sheila, watching Extreme Cuponing or some shit.

"Hey, I think I'm gonna get some air," Stan mutters close to Kyle's ear and stands. Both his mother and Kyle give him concerned looks, but he manages to give them a smile before he practically runs out of the hall and into the chilly night air.

He already feels a little better as he leans against the brick wall outside, letting his breathing even out as the smell of wet, snowy asphalt hit his nose. It's oddly comforting, and it lets Stan forget about everything for a few minutes.

He expects Kyle to follow him after a few minutes, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise when he comes out through the heavy back doors and comes to stand out beside him. There's no one out there, thankfully, which allows for Kyle to pull Stan in close and kiss him in his hair.

They don't say anything, and that's okay. Stan's perfectly content to let Kyle hold him until he gets sick of it, declares it too gay, or says they should go back inside. He doesn't know how much time passes, but he gets the feeling it's been a little while when Kyle actually asks, "Are you okay?"

"'m fine," Stan yawns a little and rests his head against Kyle's. "Shit's just crazy. Got a little claustrophobic."

"Shit, I don't blame you," Kyle chuckles a little. "Your mom was worried you came out here to bury yourself in the snow. I said I'd come and dig you out."

"Dude, we haven't even been together for a month, will you hold off on teaming up with my mom?" Stan looks over at him imploringly, and Kyle sticks out his tongue in retaliation. He laughs when Stan licks it, and shuts up entirely when he turns it into a disgustingly inappropriate tongue kiss and backs him up against the wall.

It's a good thing Shelly can throw one fuck of a party, otherwise there would definitely be more of a threat of someone catching Stan with his hand down Kyle's pants. It makes for a good distraction, Stan feels—he could actually lose himself in all the little noises Kyle makes for him, in the way his eyebrows pinch together and how he chokes out his name so desperately when he comes.

"Fuck," Kyle mutters.

"I did not plan on that happening," Stan insists as he looks around desperately for something to wipe his hand on, and settles on the section of the wall right next to Kyle's head. "I think I'm okay to go back in tho—"

Kyle cuts him off with a kiss and grabs him by the shoulders so he can flip their positions. Okay, so reciprocation sounds amazing, actually, and when Kyle sinks down to his knees he may actually whimper in anticipation.

Kyle's mouth isn't on him for two seconds before the back door opens and Kyle flies up to his feet again.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!"

It's Cartman, a cigarette and lighter in one hand while the other is clapped firmly over his eyes while Stan tucks himself back into his pants.

"How," Stan mutters to Kyle, who's swiping his fingers over his lips and trying to right himself. "How is it possible that every fucking person in this family is a cockblock?"

"There's cockblocking and there's being indecent, you fucking fags," Cartman bites out. "Will you both put your dicks away? This isn't a fucking Roman bathhouse."

"You're safe, don't worry," Kyle deadpans.

Cartman peeks through his meaty fingers first before he lowers his hand entirely and, with a reproachful glare, lights his cigarette.

"Since when do you smoke?" Stan asks as he tucks his shirt back in.

"Since you started smoking pole, probably," Cartman glowers and sucks on the end of the cigarette like it's the only thing that's keeping him from straight up murdering someone. Stan didn't realize how butt-fuckingly awful these last few days must've been for him—he's the one _marrying_ Shelly, after all—so he takes any retaliatory comment he could make and stuffs it way deep down inside him.

"Sorry, dude," he just mutters, and catches Kyle roll his eyes out of the corner of his vision.

"Gotta say," Cartman shakes his head a little bit, "I didn't think Kyle would be the cockslut out of the two of you."

"Watch it, dick," Kyle practically growls, and it makes Stan's insides clench. He doesn't want any shit right now, not when he was starting to feel so good again.

"Hey," Cartman puts up his hands, "Just an observation. I just assumed it was the other way around because… well, why wouldn't your dad be here tonight?"

"Dude, what the hell?" Kyle snaps just as Stan feels a heavy aura of despair settle back over him. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone called him on it, and of course it had to be Cartman. "This has nothing to do with his dad, you fucking idiot."

"Doesn't it, Kyle?" Cartman counters.

"No, it doesn't!" Kyle's getting pissed now. "His dad's not here because he's being a fuckhead, not because he thinks Stan likes sucking dick."

"I don't know," Cartman shakes his head, "Randy's pretty cool. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd freak out because his son's a cock-sucking queer, but… there you go."

"Dude, shut the fuck up!" Kyle shouts, and even though Stan mostly stopped letting Kyle fight his battles of him back in middle school, Stan's gonna let him have this one. Mostly because he can't convince himself that that's not the reason his dad's not speaking to him anyway and it makes his stomach hurt even more.

"Why isn't he here, Kyle?" Cartman asks now, flicking his cigarette into the snow by the door. "You look me in the eye and tell me why Randy's not here. It's because his son is a fudge-packing homo and now he can't stand to look at him long enough to come to his only daughter's rehearsal dinner. Good going, Stan, way to make this entire night about—"

Stan's about to jump to his own defense, but Kyle beats him to it, in a surprising upset, by hauling off and punching Cartman.

Right in the face.

Stan cringes as he hears the thud of Kyle's fist meeting Cartman's eye, and with the way Kyle clutches at his hand and starts sputtering, he thinks it was probably more along the lines of hitting a cement wall rather than the flesh of another human.

Cartman doesn't go down or anything like that, but he does hunch over and grab at his eye and shout "What the fuck!" as loudly as he can. "That fucking hurt, Kyle!"

Kyle, meanwhile, looks like he's still on the warpath, and so delivers a swift kick to Cartman's shin in lieu of hitting him again.

"Jesus, Kyle!" Stan exclaims and reaches out to pull him back.

"Well, mother-fucking shit!" Kyle shouts, still holding his hand close to his chest. His eyes are big and red and watery, and even though he's in a rage he looks like he's about to cry. Stan's guessing the punch really hurt, so he lets Kyle descend into a string of obscenely inappropriate curses.

It's totally fucked up, and Stan's utterly mortified to admit it, but

Seeing Kyle lose his shit is kind of a turn on.

"What the fuck is he bitching about!" Cartman bellows out. "I'm the one who has to get married tomorrow!"

"Fuck you, shithead, don't fuck with my boyfriend!" Kyle snaps back, and it makes Stan's face flush.

_Boyfriend_. Come to think of it, with the way Kyle says it right now, Stan doesn't think being known to the world as Kyle's _boyfriend_ would be such a bad thing. Not that Kyle probably knows what he's saying right now—Stan's punched plenty of people to know that the mix of adrenaline and rage makes people say and do things they don't mean to do.

"Come on," Stan just says and grabs at Kyle's upper arm. His hand looks like it's bruising already, and it's all puffy and swollen and Kyle looks like he's afraid of touching it. "Fuck, I think you broke your hand, you dumb fucker."

"Don't call me a dumb fucker when I just defended your honor," Kyle mutters through a pained groan as they walk over to Stan's mom's car.

"You are a dumb fucker," he mutters as he comes to a stop outside the car and texts his mom, praying she'll get it and come out with the keys. "We are fucked for tomorrow, I hope you know that. Shelly's gonna have both of our nuts in a vise."

"No, don't mention it," Kyle tosses out grumpily. "I live for chivalry."

"If you're gonna pout like a bitch, I'm not going to take you to the emergency room," Stan issues what he believes to be a fair warning. He lets a few beats pass before he inches close to Kyle and pecks him on the cheek. "Kyle Broflovski, you're my hero," he mumbles nasally against Kyle's cheek, and grins when Kyle shoves at him.

They wait for a good fifteen minutes, Kyle gradually calming and realizing how much pain he's actually in while Stan drags his fingertips over the back of his neck in an attempt to be comforting, until his mom comes out to them, car keys in hand and looking about as confused and appalled as Stan feels.

"What on earth is going on out here?" she asks as she drops the keys into Stan's hand. "Eric's got a black eye, your sister's going crazy—Kyle, what on earth happened to your hand?"

"What do you think, mom?" Stan sighs and runs his fingers through Kyle's hair, fluffing it up a bit before he tries to smooth it back. He's not used to Kyle being the irrational idiot out of the two of them, and he's not sure that he likes it.

"I think you might need to go to the emergency room, Kyle honey," she says through a resigned sigh. "It looks like it's already swelling up pretty bad."

Kyle looks down at his hand and sighs, "Fuck." Stan sees it too—it's all puffy and looking a little bruised, and Stan can tell that the twitching fingers aren't just nerves, but Kyle trying to move them.

"Shit," he mutters. "Come on, dude, let's go get it checked out."

"I'm sure Eric will give me and your sister a ride home, sweetheart," his mom says and kisses him on the forehead. She does the same for Kyle, which is… fuck, it's endearing is what it is, and it makes Stan feel like he doesn't ever need his dad to be okay with this, because his mom is already okay enough for a thousand parents.

They drive to Hell's Pass in mostly silence, and Stan is having a really hard time not laying into Kyle for this. He knows what nagging does, because he watched his mom nag his dad for years and nothing good came of that. He doesn't want anything like… well, like that to happen to him and Kyle, especially since they've only just gotten together.

"I'm just—" Stan can't keep himself from saying. "You _know_ how fucking dumb that was, right?"

"Yes, Stanley, I am aware," Kyle bites back, and Stan shrugs.

"Just checking."

When they get to the hospital, it's an unusually quiet night in the ER. They don't let Stan go in to see the actual doctor with Kyle, because he's not family or a spouse or anything, so he's sort of stuck in the waiting room until Kyle comes back. It's less than ideal, because he wants to be there to make sure Kyle is okay and to pet his hair and tell him everything's okay, to thank him for being stupidly sweet without even meaning to be.

Even if he feels a little weird at how corny it is that Kyle tried to protect him, he imagine Kyle feels even worse in fracturing his hand in doing so.

There's an old episode of Cheers flitting across the TV screen when Kyle finally emerges at the side of the doctor, holding a folder of x-rays and looking suspiciously happy about it.

"Hey, dude," Stan says a little tentatively as he stands, and Kyle beams at him.

"Hey yourself, stud," he shoots back and wraps his good arm around Stan's neck.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" Stan flushes a little and laughs. Kyle wrinkles his nose and pushes a kiss to Stan's cheek, while out of the corner of his eye Stan can see the doctor grab awkwardly at the back of his own neck.

"Well, he broke two bones in his hand," the older man begins, "They were fairly clean breaks, but we still had to set them. We gave him a dose of Vicodin and this just sort of… happened."

Stan looks over at Kyle, who offers him a big smile and another kiss before trying to nuzzle himself into oblivion in his neck. The doctor hesitantly hands a prescription to Stan for more painkillers and coughs, "My wife threw her back out a few months back, and the painkillers they gave her for that… hey, some people take two and go to sleep, others take two and…" he doesn't finish, so much as just holds a hand out and indicates everything Kyle's doing.

Stan thanks the doctor before helping Kyle over to orthopedics, where a buxom older woman swaths up Kyle's hand and forearm rather cheerfully.

"All right, hon," she says and opens a drawer full of brightly colored fiberglass rolls. "What color you want? Keep in mind, you're gonna be seein' this big ol' thing on your arm for a long, long time."

Kyle bites his lip, eyebrows pinched together like this is the most important decision he will ever make, and Stan can't help but think that it's mind-numbingly adorable, okay? He lights up and points to the most abrasive neon green color in the world, only to falter a moment later and pick up the blue.

"Can I have both?" he asks, eyes all big and looking at her like he might die if she says no. She smiles and nods.

"'Course you can, sug'," she smacks him lightly on his good shoulder. "This is America, you live how you wanna live."

"Excellent!" he declares and looks over at Stan, like he's divulging some big secret, and says, "I _like_ her."

"I'm glad, dude," Stan chuckles a little and smoothes his hand over Kyle's hair.

They leave the hospital with a bag full of pills and loudly growling stomachs, but it's almost midnight and all Stan wants to do is go home and crash on Kyle's bed.

"Hey," Kyle pipes up after a few moments of silence. "Know what sucks the worst about this?"

"What?" Stan asks.

"I am very obviously unable to jerk off for the next, like, six weeks or something," Kyle yawns. "That's fucking torturous."

"Ha," Stan grins. "Well, y'know… I may be able to assist you if you ask nicely."

"Mm," Kyle nods serenely and thuds his head against the back of the seat. "Thank God you submitted your resume and a sample of your work when you did, or I'd really be in trouble."

Stan laughs at that, and laughs even harder when Kyle spots a Domino's and demands that they stop. He's even lucky enough to have Kyle put his request to the tune of Yankee Doodle (_"I want pizza with some cheese, I want it pizza just for me._" "Jesus, dude, we've gotta put you on Vicodin more often. This is fucking awesome."), so he stops and gets an extra large meat lover's pizza, just to see the contented smile on Kyle's face when he opens the box and starts breathing in the pizza fumes.

They get back to Kyle's house to find that the lights are still on in his mom and dad's bedroom.

"Man, they're probably watching the Daily Show or something," Kyle yawns as they get into the house. He smacks the box of pizza down on the coffee table and plops down right in front of it. Stan goes to sit next to him and toes off his shoes while Kyle starts devouring his first slice of pizza.

"Hey, Kyle?" Stan says as he picks up his own slice and takes a bite.

"Yes, master commander," Kyle replies through a mouthful.

"Since I know you're gonna hold this over my head for the rest of our lives," Stan swallows, "I figured I'd just come out and thank you now for being a pretty goddamned good guy."

"Ugh, gross," Kyle wrinkles his nose, but nudges Stan's knee with his under the table and gives him a sidelong smile.

"What?" Stan laughs a little. Kyle just leans over and gives him a big, smacking kiss on the lips before he pulls back and shouts "I love you, Stan Marsh!" loud enough for Kyle's parents to be disturbed enough by it to come downstairs and see what the commotion is.

"Boys, what are you doing here?" Gerald asks. "We thought you'd be sleeping over at Sta—"

"Kyle, what happened to your hand?" Sheila interjects.

"Oh, fuck," Kyle looks at his cast and laughs, like he forgot about the whole thing altogether. "I punched Cartman in the face. I'm probably not going to do the wedding thing tomorrow."

"Kyle Broflovski, you _hit _someone?" Sheila comes to stand before them, hands perched on her hips and looking not unlike she did back when she'd catch them doing something bad when they were kids. "What in the world would possess you to do that?"

"He was being a dick to Stan," Kyle shrugs and grabs another slice of pizza.

"Honey, Stan can take care of himself," Sheila says imploringly.

"But mom, Stan's my boyfriend and I had to defend him," Kyle whines, like it makes the most sense in the world, and slings an arm around Stan's shoulder. He awkwardly pinches Stan's face as best he can with his broken hand and looks up at his parents, who're looking back at them like they've each grown two extra heads. "How could I not defend a face like this?"

"Um," Stan chips in when Gerald and Sheila don't say anything further. "They gave him Vicodin at the hospital? I think they may have given him a little too much."

There's another beat before both of Kyle's parents launch into separate rants about how violence is never the answer, how could he be so careless, have such little regard for another human being's safety. Stan looks over at Kyle then, who just shrugs like this is exactly what he was expecting and stands.

"Okay, well," he stretches while they're still trying to berate him. "I'm gonna go to bed or something. Love you."

Stan sits there uselessly for a moment, watching along with Sheila and Gerald as Kyle thumps happily up the stairs, humming a little to himself and displaying a general lack of regard for anyone's concerns. He stands after a moment and closes the pizza box, ready to put it away in the fridge before Sheila puts a hand on his forearm.

"I'll take care of that," she says. "You go make sure he hasn't strangled himself trying to get out of his shirt."

Stan just nods and makes his way over to the stairs. He knows they're staring at him, and his face is bright red because of it, so he turns to give them a final look.

"Uh, you guys…" he begins lamely. "You guys got that we're together? Like, together-together?"

They both just look at him like he's grown a second head.

"Right, okay. Dumb question," Stan nods. "See you in the morning."

Stan runs up the stairs and into Kyle's room, where Kyle is lying shirtless on his bed, arms spread out to his side as he stares up at the ceiling.

"My body is ready," is all he says when he hears Stan come in.

"Oh, my god, you freak," Stan laughs to himself. He gets dressed in the spare pajamas he keeps in Kyle's bottom drawer and grabs a shirt he can pull over Kyle's head when he flops down beside him. "I don't want you to freeze, dick."

When Kyle makes a petulant noise, Stan cuddles in close to him and noses at his cheek, "Because you're my boyfriend, remember? I like you warm. And alive."

"Meh," Kyle sticks out his tongue. "_Boyfriend_."

"Hey, you're the one who keeps saying it," Stan points out.

"Yeah, well," Kyle shifts so that he and Stan are face to face, and puts his good hand on his cheek. "That's 'cause I kind of like it. And I like you. And I like your stupid puppy dog face."

Stan doesn't have time to offer a response, just lets himself get swallowed in Kyle's kisses. He'll worry about Shelly tomorrow, if indeed he's still invited to her wedding, that is. For now he'll just make out with his boyfriend until they fall asleep.

_Boyfriend_.

* * *

><p><strong>As per usual, I thank everyone for reading, and I thank you guys for leaving feedback. I can't tell you how awesome you all are. <strong>

**We're getting close to the end, as you may have guessed. I won't put a number on it, because I'm notoriously bad at that, but we're almost there!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Stan wakes up to pee around seven o'clock, only to realize that he's got about half a dozen missed texts on his phone, all of which are from Shelly, all of which detail the ways in which Kyle is not allowed to come to the wedding today. As punishment or something. Stan will have to tell her that he doesn't think this is so much of a punishment for Kyle as it is a successful undertaking.

He rolls out of bed, careful not to bash into Kyle's arm or wake him up, and goes to the bathroom. Kyle's house is the same layout as his, except backwards, and Stan's just tired enough for it to be frustrating. He smacks right into a wall before he finds the door to the bathroom, and has to remind himself that the toilet is on the other side of the room before he takes care of business.

Instead of going back into Kyle's room, he figures he'll go downstairs and make himself some coffee. The Broflovskis have for many years been insistent that Stan's not a guest in their home, but one of the family (and the same has always applied to Kyle when he's at Stan's), so he feels no shame in trudging to the coffee maker and brewing up a pot.

He pours a generous amount of Coffee Mate into his cup and sits at the table, stoic and not really thinking far beyond how tired he is and how long today is going to be.

This clusterfuck is going to keep on keeping on, and now Kyle's not even going to be there with him.

He takes a sip out of his mug and runs a hand over his face. Maybe if he—no. He has to go. It's entirely likely that Randy won't show up today, and if that's the case Shelly will never forgive him for bowing out too.

"Oh, good morning, Stan."

It's Gerald. He's in his pajamas, looking like he woke up a little too early. He shuffles over to the coffee pot without another word and pours himself before he comes to sit at the table with Stan. He and Kyle both drink their coffee black, a feat which Stan has never understood, quite frankly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Gerald yawns and shakes the rest of the sleep out of his head. "So," he says. "Big day today, huh?"

"Yep," Stan yawns in turn and pinches at the bridge of his nose. Fuck he does not have the capacity right now.

"I remember when my sister got married," Gerald nods. "Stressful times."

"No kidding," Stan laughs a little and rubs his fingers over his temples. "I mean, last night didn't help anything, but… It's my sister and Eric Cartman, so I guess it was going to be a total disaster either way."

"Mm," Gerald nods, "You boys have never been in the business of half-assing disasters."

Stan smiles a little at this. It's weird to think, but Gerald and Sheila have pretty much known him his whole life. They came to his piano recitals with Kyle, when he was in the hospital they came to visit him, and when his parents got divorced and there were nights when he literally could not handle being at home, they let him crash on their couch for a few nights without question.

"My, uh," Stan begins, smile still there on his face, even if his happy feelings are starting to dissipate. "My dad didn't show up last night. And I think it's because I told him about, uhm… not being into girls."

"Ah," Gerald just nods, taking this and mulling it over for a second before he runs a hand through is thinning hair. "Well, your dad's always had a penchant for dramatics. Maybe he just needs a little time to let it settle. I know it's the twenty-first century and everything, but it's not exactly an easy pill to swallow for some of us still."

Stan takes a deep breath and nods. That's fair enough, he supposes—he's not like Butters, who's been blatantly attracted to guys and openly been sleeping with them since they were teenagers. This thing with Kyle was a curveball, Stan knows this, but still…

"I just don't think it's worth not talking to your kid over," Stan thinks out loud and Gerald shakes his head.

"No, I don't think so either," he concedes.

"It's just like," Stan begins. "He's not interested in anything I do unless it directly applies to him, or if we can do it together, or if it's something he's always wanted to do or some shit. Music's great. Football? Awesome. But the minute I do something like—"

Stan tries to pick through his habits and hobbies, trying to find something he does (other than have sex with guys) his dad would disapprove of, but he can't find anything. He loves sitting on the couch and watching TV, he encourages Stan's drinking, loves the whole music thing and all the sports he played. He'd probably gladly sit in his underwear and play Halo with Stan unti—

"Oh my God," Stan buries his face in his hands, feeling a sudden rush of emotions hit him as he realizes, "Oh, my fucking God, I'm my dad."

"Whoa, now," Gerald holds up his hands. "Stan, you and your dad may have similarities, but you're not the same person."

"We are," Stan laments and thuds his forehead against the table. Even this, the egregious overreaction, has Randy Marsh written all over it. He can't help it, this is just who he is. He has his moments of clarity and reason, but for the most part, this is it. Shit, he's gonna grow up to be some hideous man-child and send Kyle running for the hills, isn't he.

"Okay, well, I probably can't say very much to convince you otherwise at this point," Gerald says on the end of a sigh. "But I think I know you pretty well, Stan, and at least well enough to say you're not your dad, not even close. You're a good kid, Stan, and your dad… is a good guy. He'll come around, and if he doesn't? I'm happy to be here for you, okay?"

The words stop Stan's neurosis dead and make him peek through his fingers. Gerald at least looks sincere, and it makes Stan feel decidedly less insane than before. Then, in a moment of lapsed judgment, he flies forward and envelops Gerald in a hug.

It's a little gay, and Stan's well aware of how ridiculous he's being, but he just needs a fucking hug right now, okay? And Gerald… Gerald's cool enough to hug him back.

Stan's not crying when he pulls away, but he feels like he may as well be. Gerald pats him on the back and stands, plucking his mug up from the table as he says, "You're gonna be fine, all right?"

Stan nods.

"Thanks," he gives him a smile. Gerald nods back and sips at his coffee.

"And if you and Kyle make each other happy, that's all I care about," he says, and with that he leaves. He passes Kyle on the way through the living room, patting him on the shoulder before he goes upstairs. Kyle raises his eyebrow, but flops down into a chair and sets his cast down on the table with a thud. He looks at it, like it's personally wronged him, before he heaves a sigh.

"What in the fuck did I do to myself," he says more than asks, and Stan snorts.

"You know what you did," he says," And I've been informed that you're not allowed to attend."

"Good," Kyle yawns and props his chin up on his good hand. "My nefarious plan worked."

Stan hums and lets his eyelids flutter a bit. Then he ducks forward and cups Kyle's face in his hands so he can press their lips together.

"Stupid fuck," he says softly, affectionately, and kisses Kyle some more. He's going to spend the rest of his life hearing about 'that one time' that Kyle broke his hand defending him, so he figures he may as well start up with the gratitude now.

"Hey, come back here," Kyle frowns a little and reaches out for Stan when he moves to stand. Kyle pulls him back in by his wrist and kisses him again. And Stan's more than perfectly content to hang out with Kyle all day and have his mom fill him in on the day later.

He knows he can't do that, though. Shelly will kill him, and if she doesn't, their mom will.

"I can't believe you're not gonna be there today," Stan sighs as he pulls back. "You're such an asshole."

"Hey," Kyle scowls and holds up his cast. He points to the blue and green swirled mass and says, "I'd catch a grenade for you."

"Oh, my God, go fuck yourself," Stan gags, and tells Kyle that if he ever mentions Bruno Mars in front of him again he'll be tortured in a very non-sexy way. He washes his cup out in the sink and doesn't even try to hide his smile when Kyle comes up behind him and kisses him on the neck. Stan turns around in Kyle's arms and kisses Kyle just under the chin.

"Hey," Kyle hums as Stan starts planting kisses all over his jaw and neck. "So this is the last thing you need to be thinking about today, I know, but… I love you, okay?"

"This is the worst conversation ever already," Stan grins.

"Shut up," Kyle grins and pokes him in the ribs. "I'm thinking about moving back here and want to know if you'd live with me."

It stops Stan right in his tracks. He looks up at Kyle and frowns a little, because _what_?

"Dude, why would you move back here?" he asks. "You have a job in Boston, and a place, and a life."

"Yeah, but I miss it here," Kyle shrugs. "This is my home, dude; I don't want to be away forever. Like, we don't have to be in South Park, but, like, Denver would be pretty sweet, right?"

Stan pulls back a little more and gives Kyle a long hard look. If he's talking about it, he must've given this a careful amount of thought. Kyle doesn't say things like this if he hasn't.

"I guess," he says tepidly, and Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Okay, I'm moving back either way," he asserts, going a little red in the face and Stan thinks he may've just unintentionally delivered a blow to Kyle's ego. "You can move in with me if you want, if you want to stay here with your mom, that's cool too. I need to know so I know if I have to look for pet-friendly places or not."

"Dude!" Stan laughs a little and grabs Kyle's face in his hands. "It's cool, okay? I'm all for it. I just didn't know you'd been thinking about it."

"Ah," Kyle nods.

"It's that little thing called having a conversation?" Stan offers. "You know, like… when you have a thought and then you say it out loud to someone, and they respond?"

"Fuck off!" Kyle laughs and swats at Stan's head with his good arm.

"Seriously, dude," Stan grabs his wrist and kisses him. "When the fuck did you decide this?"

"Honestly?" Kyle raises his eyebrows. "At some point between getting pissed enough to punch Cartman and the doctor not waiting until the painkillers kicked in all the way to _put my hand back together_, I kept thinking about how pants-shittingly scared I would've been if you hadn't been waiting for me. And how when shit like last night goes down, how much I like that you take care of me and get shit done and… how that couldn't happen if I was back east, so. It took a broken hand, but I finally realized that I want to be as close to you as possible.

Stan's chest feels all big and stupidly full as he goes to stroke his fingers through Kyle's hair and grins way too big.

"You're still a little loopy, aren't you?" he asks and Kyle rests his forehead against Stan's.

"I guess you'd believe I've never had painkillers before last night, huh?" he mutters, and Stan starts laughing. Kyle's a-goddamned fucking-dorable like this and it makes Stan want him as close as possible as soon as possible.

"Y'know, I don't think I got to thank you properly for last night, by the way," he says softly. Kyle grins broadly and tugs Stan up to his room, laughing and kissing all the way.

Stan gets home about an hour and a half before they're supposed to be at the church, coffee in hand and collar flipped up in a futile attempt to hide the hickeys Kyle left on his neck, just to be an ass.

He picked up coffee for Shelly and Cartman in an attempt at extending an olive branch or some shit, and pushes his sunglasses up through his hair when he gets into the house.

There's wedding shit everywhere. There's flowers and gifts and frilly clothes strewn everywhere and Stan's thinking the first wave of the apocalypse might have already hit at some point last night.

"Dear sweet fucking God," he mutters and steps over a large mass of tangled shapewear and heads for the stairs. "Hello?" he calls. "I have coffee."

There's the sound of a door being opened and suddenly Shelly's descending upon him, greedily grabbing the first cup she sees and takes a few gulps, only to pull a face and look at Stan like he's personally wronged her.

"What the hell was that?" she asks.

"My Caramel Macchiato, dude," Stan winces and turns the tray. "I got you your green tea latte though."

Shelly grabs it and takes a long sip, melting into it and looking like this is exactly what she needed. She nods a few times, takes a few deep breaths and hugs the cup close to herself.

"That's right," Stan nods and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Don't cling to it like it's liquid crack or anything. This is completely normal."

"Fuck off, I'm getting married today, dickweed," she scowls and stands up straight. She's only in her pajamas still, but there's stuff in her hair and she's got stuff on her face and _oh god_ she's, like, trying to pull the evil out of her face or something.

"Apologies," he says and tips an imaginary hat. "Where's your fiancé? I've got the fucking motherload of caffeine waiting for him."

"He's getting ready at his mom's house," Shelly waves her hand and heads back to her room. "And don't think this is means I forgive you, either."

"Uh, I didn't do anything, Shel," Stan says as he follows her. "I didn't actually punch him, if you'll recall. That was my boyfriend, who broke his hand on your fiancé's iron face thank you very much."

"It's your faggot boyfriend who can't throw a good punch," Shelly shrugs and sits on the little stool in front of her vanity.

Stan nods, because he knows this is true—he figures a better friend would've at least taught him how to make a decent fist.

Now of course there are all sorts of dirty things associated with 'fist' and 'Kyle' in his brain and he shifts because _goddamn_ he can still feel Kyle moving inside him from this morning.

"So," Shelly says, snapping Stan out of his thoughts. She's got a stupid smug smile on her face as she starts taking little curlers out of her hair, "Boyfriend, huh?"

Stan shifts and takes his sunglasses off of his head, tossing them onto the bed and grabbing his coffee out of its place in the tray. "Yeah, that happened."

"That's really gay," Shelly says and indicates her neck, "Nice décor, little brother."

She cackles as Stan flips her off and flops down onto her bed.

"I really am sorry shit went down, though," he says after a minute. If there's one thing he's learned in the last twenty-three years, it's know when to apologize. His dad never did and that's what completely fucked everything over.

A few moments pass before Shelly nods and replies, "I know."

Stan nods back. That's the best he's going to get.

"So," he leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees. "Since Kyle's out of the wedding party… who'd you get to take his place? I don't have to act as both, do I?"

"Of course not, asshole," Shelly rolls her eyes. "It'd throw off the symmetry. You're going to stand with Eric and… Molly's going to stand with me."

Stan pauses, and with good reason. Molly is their fifteen-year-old cousin and the only person who would even think of being in a wedding with Shelly. She's loud, she's got big poofy hair, and she's got problems that no one will ever understand _ever_.

She also thinks Shelly is the coolest person on the planet and it makes the hairs on the back of Stan's neck stand up on end.

"Jesus, you asked _Molly_?" Stan grimaces.

"Ugh, I know," Shelly shakes her head. "She's getting here in like half an hour so mom can do our hair."

"Mom's doing your hair?" Stan raises his eyebrows. "Don't girls go to salons on their wedding days or something?"

"Uh, have you seen my venues?" she asks, like Stan's incapable of the most simplistic thoughts. "I had to cut corners somewhere. Plus, she did my hair for prom and it looked awesome, so… why not?"

"Awesome," Stan extends a thumbs up, because he really could give a shit and he's so fucking glad he's a dude and doesn't have to worry about looking well put together.

Or, rather, he's glad Kyle likes him the way he looks, because he doesn't think he has the capacity to go above and beyond shaving his face semi-regularly. He knows he's looking kind of scraggly this morning, because last night was fucking exhausting, but Kyle ran his face and tongue over Stan's scruff this morning and _fuck_, he's doing it again. He attempts to cross his legs and runs his fingers through his messy hair.

"So, do you want me to go over and help Cartman get ready?" he asks, but Shelly shakes her head and waves her hand again.

"His mom's helping him," she says and grabs a bottle of nail polish. "God help us all. Do my nails?"

Stan snorts and shakes his head, "No."

"Please?" Shelly asks. "I know you still know how, you little pisshead. It's not like it's my wedding or anything, and it's not like your husband socked—"

"Ugh, fine!" Stan rolls his eyes and scoots to make room on the bed for her. "Jesus, you're such a bitch sometimes."

Stan's actually pretty embarrassed, but he's kind of good at painting nails. Shelly used to make him do it for her while she babysat him, and god help you if you didn't do it properly. This is a light blue color, one that probably matches the sash on her dress, and Stan takes her hand and sets it on his knee and he goes to work.

Fuck, he's way too good at this. He has to change the subject or something; this is getting way too fucking cozy.

"I can't fucking believe you're marrying him, dude," Stan says, flicking his eyes up to look at her, but she doesn't take the bait. She just looks at the nails Stan's already painted and shrugs.

"He makes me happy," she says very simply. "He knows what I want, I know what he wants… it works. I wouldn't have agreed to marry him if it didn't."

"I know," Stan shifts. "But still."

"Whatever," Shelly rolls her eyes. "We have fun together, just us. He's my best friend. Well, you know; I don't have to tell you."

Stan pauses a little and looks up at Shelly, who's still not looking at him. She just shakes her hand a little and tells Stan to hurry up, and Stan goes back to it. It's a concept people have talked about before, he thinks… maybe Kyle's parents? They always talk about how they're each the best friend the other has. Maybe that's how he knew his parents were over, when it was obviously more of a chore to be together than it was an actual relationship.

Oh, god. He remembers being a kid and hearing Kyle's parents say that, and then looking over at Kyle and wrinkling his nose and laughing, because _gross_.

Only, now spending the rest of his life tethered to Kyle actually doesn't seem too bad. Who better to spend it with than your best friend?

Stan gets a dull ache in his chest when he thinks about Kyle not being there today. He wants someone to make faces at and someone who'll return his eye-rolls, and someone who'll be able to laugh at this whole goddamned thing with him thirty years from now.

When he finishes her nails, Stan chugs the rest of his coffee and goes into his room to get ready. He takes a shower—a thorough one, getting all the sex sweat and grime from the past few days off of him. He shaves his face clean and even puts a little product in his hair to make it look like he's a halfway hygienic human being. He spends about half an hour on his bed in nothing but his boxers, too wired to nap and too anti-social to go and join the girl party next door. He can hear Molly's obnoxiously loud voice and abrasive laugh and it's giving him a migraine.

He wants to call Kyle, to tell him what a fuckface he is for leaving him to go through this alone, but he doesn't want to come off as needy.

He puts his tux on, and even though it's a little tight around the middle (because Shelly insisted getting a size smaller would help motivate him to cut out some calories or exercise or something) he supposes he'll just bitch incessantly about it later. He goes to Shelly's room and knocks, entering when he hears three voices chime, "Come in!"

"Oo, Stan you look so handsome!"

That's Molly. She's a rail of a thing, dressed still in her pajamas like she just came from the hotel where she's staying with her parents.

"Thanks," he shifts uncomfortably, because he's actually not okay with the word handsome at all. He sends a pleading look to his mom, who just chuckles a little bit as she piles and twists a few locks of Shelly's hair up on top of her head.

"Honey, you look very charming," she says and looks up at him with that stupidly smug smile on her face. "Except maybe do something about your neck."

Stan looks at her blankly for a second too long. Soon Molly his up on her feet and pointing accusatorily at Stan, jumping up and down like a puppy on crank.

"You've got hickeys on your neck!" she cries and Stan rolls his eyes.

"So glad you brought in a pinch hitter, Shel," he mutters and goes into his mom's room to find her cover-up. He tried using Shelly's once, but it does nothing but make his neck all pestilent-looking and pale. He goes back in the room when he's all done and has them do a quick check. His mom gives him a thumbs up, while Molly can't stop giggling and Shelly absently says, "Good job covering up your skank," as she flips through a magazine.

He doesn't bother with going to Cartman's or anything, just goes right to the church to see if they need any help setting up. The wedding itself starts in about an hour, which means that Shelly and his mom and Molly should be getting here soon to set up in the back room and get Shelly into her dress and everything. Stan thinks they're also supposed to take pictures or something, though maybe that's after. Or maybe Shelly takes pictures before? Fuck, he doesn't know.

He just feels really fucking alone and he doesn't like it.

He takes out his phone and takes a picture of himself pouting on the church steps so he can send it to Kyle.

He gets nothing but 'queermo' in response not ten seconds later and it makes his chest feel all full. He's about to text back, but Cartman's there and looking uncharacteristically dapper with his tux all wrapped in plastic and slung over his shoulder and watching Stan like a hawk. Stan just rolls his eyes and tucks his phone away.

"Your mom covered up the damage nicely," he comments lightly as Cartman grunts and comes to sit beside him.

"Shelly said he broke his hand," he chortles. Stan nods and shrugs.

"You know no one ever taught him how to throw a punch," he says and props his chin on one of his hands, looking at a melty patch of snow on the church's lawn. "Don't act like you weren't being a total fuck, though."

"Whatever, you're the one who scared your dad away, you fucking asshole," Cartman huffs.

"Okay, look," Stan snaps. "I know you don't have a dad or anything, so mine seems really cool, but dude? My dad's a total fucking tool. Y'know, I hope he comes today and everything because you guys both want him here, but he wasn't a good dad, okay? He had his moments, sure, and he loves us and stuff, but that doesn't make someone a good parent."

"He's still your dad, though," Cartman frowns, like he just doesn't get it.

Stan rolls his eyes and gives a frustrated groan as he pushes himself up off of the steps. "You take him, then," he says. "He doesn't want me? Good, he can have you. You finally get a dad, he finally gets a son who doesn't care that he's a total butt-reaming fuckhole, and I finally get to be left alone. Everybody fucking wins."

Stan rubs a hand over his face and lets out a breath. He feels a little better now, like puking when you've had too much to drink or something. Cartman just stands and stuffs a meaty hand in his pocket.

"Jesus, how long've you been holding in that queef, Stan?"

Stan rolls his eyes and flips him off, but follows him into the church anyway. If he'd said anything else, Stan thinks he probably would've decked him himself. This way he knows that at least part of today will be normal. As long as Cartman's a cold unfeeling jagoff about everything, the world will keep on turning and today will eventually come to an end.

Stan goes through the motions as soon as Shelly gets there and they start taking pictures. He stands where he's supposed to and smiles when he's told, and even does all of it without one smartassed remark.

There's still a few minutes before he's supposed to be in the church, so he sits outside on a bench with Molly and checks his phone. There's a new text message from Kyle.

_'Do you think these painkillers would make taking it up be butt more enjoyable?'_

Stan snorts and shifts so Molly can't see the screen of his phone, even though now he can tell she's damned curious, and replies, _'not the one to ask dude i love having stuff in my butt :P'_

There's a few moments that pass before he gets a response.

_'What kind of stuff?'_

_'you know what dickhead'_

Stan smirks and is about to tuck his phone away again so he and Molly can go inside, but a new message pops up on his screen.

That. Is not a message.

That's a picture of Kyle's dick, captioned with_ 'stuff like this?'_

Stan, though insanely flustered and now the object of Molly's entire attention, manages to type back, _'AT CHURCH.' _

_'Mm have fun with that. Guess what I'll be doing.'_

What he's actually doing is probably nothing along the lines of what Stan's imagining, but reality checks do nothing for him when it comes to this kind of thing. He tells Molly to head into the church without him and seriously considers shoving snow in his pants just to calm himself down.

He just got laid this morning, okay? It's not okay. Kyle turns him into a fucking horny fifteen-year-old, which is awesome when they're alone and it's convenient, but… _but damn it._ It makes standing in a church in front of his relatives really goddamned awkward.

The church is all done up with bouquets of light blue flowers and ribbons and other shit Stan knows he's seen before, because Shelly's made him look at all of it before. Cartman's side of the church is decidedly less full than Shelly's is as far as family goes, but most of the people invited from town who don't give much of a crap either way have done the nice thing and filled out the empty seats.

Randy doesn't show up for the ceremony, so their mom walks Shelly down the aisle. Even though he's standing next to Cartman, the sight still makes him pretty damn happy. For all the shit they give each other, Stan's open to admit that he does love both of them kind of a lot, and Shelly… Jesus, Shelly actually looks really fucking happy. Her hair's all done up and her dress is as pretty as it was the day she tried it on. She's added a sash and her veil is sparkly and held up by a glittery hair piece thing.

She's gorgeous, and Stan smiles, because their dad doesn't know what he's missing out on. Stan's pretty sure his love for dick isn't anything to write home about, much less miss Shelly looking this fucking happy for.

It's not a hideously long ceremony or anything, but Stan gets bored easily and it's only made worse by the fact that he can't show it or space out or anything. He hands Cartman the ring when it's time, and claps out of actual happiness when they kiss, and the whole thing makes him feel way gayer than he anticipated, but what can you do?

He's held up by taking post-ceremony pictures (because of course), and it's only halfway through that he realizes he hasn't eaten anything all day. He withstands bright flash after bright flash and smiles one vacant, hollow smile after another. He doesn't want to complain, because for once in his life he doesn't want to ruin something of Shelly's.

He takes two pictures with her, just the two of them. One because he's her brother, and the other as a stand in for one with their dad (in which they both pulled ridiculous faces that would have anyone believing they were thirteen and sixteen again). Just when he's feeling woozy enough, his mom is kind enough to drive his car to the reception and supply him with one of the granola bars she always keeps in her purse.

The actual party is back in the banquet hall, only now everything's all moved around so that there's room for people to dance, for people to sit, and if he's said it once, he'll say it a thousand times more: Shelly throws one fucking amazing party. She and Cartman probably won't even get there for another half an hour and already everyone's having a good time.

So, naturally, Stan makes his way over to the food table, where Kenny and Butters are huddled over plates of appetizers and laughing together and giggling and having that general look of camaraderie about them. If Stan were of a sounder mind, he'd miss Kyle even more than he already does.

As it stands, he's ravenously hungry and it's putting him in caveman mode. He stalks over to the food and doesn't even bother with a plate. He grabs a whole skewer of bacon-wrapped something or other (requested by Cartman, of course) and starts gnawing away like it's his last meal.

When he finally manages to convince his body that it's not dying, he realizes that Kenny and Butters are both staring at him like the two concerned aunties that they are and he rolls his eyes.

"What's up?" he asks. "You guys weren't at the reception."

"Nope," Kenny shakes his head as Butters leans over and hands Stan a small plastic plate. "Decided to stay home and have a marathon fuck this morning."

"It was way better than church," Butters nods.

"I had sex this morning _and_ dicked around in a wedding," Stan frowns and piles a bunch of fruit onto his plate. "What's your fucking excuse?"

"I don't think you understand," Kenny shakes his head and braces a hand on Stan's shoulder. "I don't use the word 'marathon' lightly."

"I did work him over like he owed me money," Butters concedes and takes a bite of a little cheese puff thing that makes him pull a face and put it on Kenny's plate.

"Fuck it," Kenny stuffs the food in his mouth. "I'm lining my fucking jacket with this shit before we leave, son."

"Charming," Butters comments and grabs a few grapes while Stan proceeds to stuff his face with pineapple. God, he just wants to keep his mouth occupied so he doesn't have to talk to anyone, and since there's no liquor option for the fucking _afternoon reception _Shelly decided to have (except for what Kenny and Butters snuck in with them in flasks), Stan's resigned himself to eating everything he can find.

"Dude, don't chow down on too much of that," Kenny shakes his head. "It makes your come taste weird."

"It does not," Butters rolls his eyes, which only makes Kenny look over at him and raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Butters nods, which in turn spawns Kenny grabbing all the pineapple off of Stan's plate and the table and start shoving it in his face like being right is going to be worth getting a stomach ache. "Aw, darlin', don't overwhelm your system," Butters tuts, "That there? That grew on a tree. Didn't get processed, freeze-dried, and put in a box."

"What the fuck ever," Kenny shakes a bright yellow piece of pineapple in Butters' face. "You'll see. My junk's gonna taste all sorts of delicious."

"Fucking shit, you guys see me standing here, right?" Stan asks through a mouthful of food.

"You're a witness!" Kenny exclaims, and Butters starts laughing. "I need a witness."

Stan gets the vague inkling that Butters has been having a hard time these last few days, what with seeing Cartman so much and being around so many people. If Stan's been close to offing himself, he can't even imagine… He knows Kenny's being over the top and ridiculous to distract Butters, to keep him grounded, to make him laugh and smile and keep him in a good place and _God_ Stan's going to run his head through a wall he's missing Kyle so much.

Shelly and Cartman get to the party and immediately she's swarmed by what looks like every guest save for Butters, Kenny, and Stan. They all sort of retreat into a corner, shielding themselves behind a bunch of houseplants all done up with fairy lights and shit so they can watch and observe, occasionally pointing out Cartman's grandma's back fat or Stan's aunt's horrible boob job.

"I agree, she doesn't have the frame to support anything bigger than a C," comes a familiar voice and Stan whips around fast enough to get dizzy.

It's Kyle. He's fucking here. Like, not like the fucking Nazis were impeding his ability to come or anything, but still. He hadn't wanted to be here, he doesn't have to and in fact _shouldn't _be here, but lo and behold, and _fuck_.

He cleans up good. He's wearing the tux he was supposed to wear for the ceremony, and it fits his body perfectly. He smells like aftershave and his cologne and he's standing a little too close to Stan and he's _smiling_ like Stan's the only reason he'd ever think to live and breathe and it's making his insides churn just a little bit.

"Looking dapper as fuck there, Broflovski," Kenny offers a salute just as Kyle says "uh-oh" and takes a step back so Stan can turn to hurl in one of the planters.

"Oh, shit!" Kenny laughs and goes to pat Stan on the back.

"Aw jeez, I wonder if the shellfish was bad," Butters ponders and sniffs at his plate.

"No, Kyle's just looking so good that Stan yuked all over the place," Kenny offers amusedly and Stan gives a half-hearted swat behind him. He just threw up because his boyfriend looked nice.

He's officially regressed all the way back to the third grade.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stan asks when he's finally gathered his bearings. Kyle hands him a napkin and pushes back at his hair.

"I came with my parents because I thought you could use some company," he says. "I forgot that the fucking Wonder Twins would be here."

"What up, suckah," Kenny nods, and Butters waves cheerfully beside him.

"Hand me that whiskey, Ken," Stan groans, and Kenny grabs his flask out of his jacket pocket and tosses it Stan's way. He rinses out his mouth and spits it back into the plant, not particularly caring that this plant is not long for this world.

Stan hands the flask back to Kenny and goes to rest his forehead on Kyle's shoulder.

"I love you, so fucking much," he hums as Kyle's hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you _must_ be feeling like shit," Kyle laughs and wraps his arms around Stan's shoulders. He kisses Stan's hair and Stan pulls him in close, which makes Kenny groan loudly and Butters giggle softly.

"Goddamn, not only do you two match like a couple of Stepford fags, but Jesus take the wheel now you're starting to act like it," Kenny drones on. "Next thing I know you're exchanging rings and adopting babies…"

"You two wear each other's fucking dog tags or some shit," Kyle scowls as he props his chin on Stan's shoulder. Butters beams and pulls a pair of dog tags out from underneath his shirt.

"It's got all my crazy information on it!" he says, and Kenny loops his arm around his neck and pushes his lips to his cheek. Everyone's just distracted enough by Shelly and Cartman not to notice.

"I figured you were having a pretty terrible time," Kyle says and finally lets Stan go. "Just keep an eye out for Cartman and Shelly and I'll duck for cover."

They move away from the corner a bit, just to get away from the smell of vomit, and keep watching the festivities. Stan holds back a groan when Cartman and Shelly do their first dance, even though the music is nice and it's one of the songs she picked that actually wasn't terrible. She looks happy, though, and so does Cartman. To the side of him he can see Butters swaying to the music with a distant grin on his face, and Kenny smiling to himself because he can obviously see him out of the corner of his eye.

Meanwhile, Stan knows he's much too close to Kyle, and that if Shelly and Cartman so much as look this way that they're fucked, but he's much too happy for his own good so he can't really care…

Until Kenny starts waxing poetic about his mom's rack, that is, at which point Stan shoves his empty plate into Kyle's hand and goes to where his mom is talking with Bebe to ask her to cover up her cleavage because _Jesus_.

"Oh, honey please," his mom just rolls her eyes. "If you had 'em you'd flaunt 'em too."

"Amen to that," Bebe tips an imaginary hat. Stan lets out a frustrated groan and turns to walk back to his food and his friends, but just then the DJ announces the beginning of the father-daughter dance and okay so no one thought to tell the DJ that the father of the bride never showed up. That's… great. Stan looks over and sees Shelly turning a little pink, and before his mom can step in, Stan finds himself intervening.

He doesn't want Shelly to be embarrassed when she worked so hard to make this day perfect, so he sticks out a hand and offers her a smile. Whether she takes it because she's actually grateful or because she's just looking to fill the void, Stan's not sure, but they start dancing and it's a little awkward because _hello there spotlight_, but he'll endure.

Presumably, this will be his sister's only wedding.

"Dad's a fucking idiot," Stan says softly, so only Shelly can hear, and Shelly nods.

"I know," she sighs and gives Stan a tired-looking smile. "Thanks for being here, though."

Stan smiles, because he thinks it may be the first time Shelly's ever been thankful for anything he's ever done. "You're my big sister, dude, of course."

When the song ends and Stan returns, it seems Butters has been lost to the allure of the dance floor and is now doing some sort of makeshift swing dance with Bebe, while Kenny's whipped out a sharpie and is doodling on Kyle's cast.

Upon further inspection, it becomes apparent that Kenny's drawn a set of stick figures, and the one with the mop of dark hair is… yup, he's totally sticking it in the one with the afro.

"Classy, Ken," Kyle remarks as Stan comes up beside him and says, "Wow, not even close."

"Seriously?" Kenny's eyebrows fly up into his hair and grabs Kyle's cast for further inspection. "Huh. I guess I owe Butters ten bucks. Damn, that boy's good."

"Wow," Kyle muses as Stan starts laughing and hides his face in Kyle's neck. See, this is what he wanted today to be: hanging out with his best friends while his sister and his not-so-great friend get married and celebrate or whatever. He's kind of walking on air right now, so he grabs Kyle by the back of the head and crushes their lips together, flipping Kenny off when he audibly retches and smiling into Kyle's mouth when he grabs his ass with his good hand and swats at Kenny with the other.

"Hey, Stan, people have been saying—oh _come on!_"

Stan jumps about eight feet back when Shelly's voice hits his ears, and tries not to laugh when Kyle goes to duck behind him.

"Stan, he's not allowed to be here!"

"Aw, come on," Kenny says and drapes an arm around Shelly's shoulders. "They're just young and in love, don't knock 'em for that."

Shelly shrugs Kenny's arm off her and gives him a warning glare, one that makes Kenny fuck off and go look for Butters.

"Dude, I don't get what the big deal is," Stan frowns. "You're having a nice time, we're having a nice time… No one's getting hurt, right?"

"Stan," Shelly gives him a look now. "If I punched him in the face, you wouldn't want me around either."

"Shel—"

"Look," she snaps. "He has to go. I want you to stay, but if you don't want to… y'know, fine. You've been really cool all day, so it's no big deal. Just get out of here before Eric sees, okay? He'll throw a shit fit if he sees you."

And he would. Stan knows he would. If he doesn't want Kyle there… irrational as it is, he'll make a big fucking scene until he gets his way. So, he resigns himself to a sigh and gives Shelly a hug.

"Uh, you're really pretty today, Shel," he says. "Congratulations and everything."

"Yeah," Kyle nods and gives Shelly a smile, which she looks like she might want to return, but decides against it.

"Mom'll bring you cake, I'm sure," she says and looks like she's about to leave them, but the music stops dead and her face pinches into a frown. Stan cranes his head over the crowd to get a good look—it's possible their aunt tripped over a cord and unplugged the speakers or something.

Only he sees what's actually happening and goes sheet white.

"Fuck, don't turn around," he says to Shelly, who of course does exactly the opposite and lets out an, "Oh, shit."

Their dad's on the stage, microphone in hand, and looking more than his fair share of drunk.

"I wanna say something," he starts in.

"Oh God, no," Stan mutters and pinches the bridge of his nose

"Dad, don't," Shelly winces helplessly.

"This is one beautiful celebration," Is what Randy ends up saying, and Shelly and Stan both wilt a little with relief. Randy leans on the microphone stand a bit and continues, "I'm sorry to say I wasn't here earlier. That was real shitty of me and I'm glad we've got family good enough to make up for me not being here."

Stan feels a little like crying, but he doesn't know if it's because what Randy's saying is actually kind of nice or if it's because he's so embarrassed for him that he can't actually process it like a normal human being.

"Shelly, honey, this is a beautiful wedding, and I'm so happy for you and Eric," Randy continues. "And Sharon? We've had our moments but I think we made a couple of great kids, huh?"

Yeah, okay, it's embarrassing. Stan knows he's bright red and under all the pancake and make-up he can see Shelly definitely is too. Their mom just gives an awkward nod, watching with her hand on her cheek like she knows what the fuck's about to unfurl.

"And Stan," Randy says.

"Oh, no," Stan feels his heart drop.

"Stan, you're a good kid," Randy concludes, like he's had to think about this. "And if you wanna get down on your knees and suck cock for the rest of your life—" there's an uproar that breaks out before he can even finish and Stan's officially going to declare himself dead and renounce his place in society. Not before, of course, Randy shouts over the outraged grumbles "—AND THAT'S OKAY, PEOPLE. He's an American, he has rights!"

Thankfully, the DJ and Cartman are able to escort him off the platform after that. Of course, Stan's bright red and sort of getting woozy at all the hundreds of eyes that have settled on him. He's vaguely aware of Kenny and Butters coming out of the fray and helping Kyle get him out the back door, and knows he sees Shelly move in to do a little damage control before the door shuts and he's out in the parking lot.

No one's talking, and the silence is deafening. Stan's pretty sure he's still in shock. He was just outed to his entire family and the entire town on the drunken whim of his father. His head hurts, everything feels too hot, and he can't stop staring at the license plate on the car directly in front of him.

Somehow, inadvertently, he manages to screw up his sister's wedding, after trying so hard to make it nice for her.

Great.

"Well," Kenny starts in and shoves his hands in his pockets. "That was way better than staying home and watching Mob Wives."

"You don't watch Mob Wi—_ow_!" Butters whimpers as Kenny reaches through his crisp yellow shirt and gives him a tittie twister.

"Stan?" there's Kyle's voice now, and the very sound of it snaps Stan out of his trance and into crushing Kyle against him in a rather oppressive hug. No one says anything for a while after that; Kyle just sort of holds Stan against him and pets his hand over his hair.

"Uh," Kenny clears his throat. "We're just gonna… go. And see how bad it is in there."

"Yeah," Butters pipes up and gives Stan's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Hang in there, Stan."

When he hears the back door shut again, he tightens his grip on Kyle and tries not to cry. Everything's just shit and he can't really help it. It's one of those moments where he needs to let it out, but even though he's trying there's nothing happening. He takes a few shaky breaths, trying to ease himself into it, but it's not working.

"Did that just happen?" Stan asks instead.

"If I tell you the truth, do you promise not to hurl yourself off a cliff?" Kyle counters and runs his fingers through Stan's hair. "I'm sorry, Stan."

"Fucking figures," Stan mutters and props his chin on Kyle's shoulder. "Try not to fuck up my sister's wedding, do it anyway."

"Hey, your dad fucked everything up, dude," Kyle frowns and pushes a kiss to Stan's neck. "You were kicking ass at being a good brother, okay? Y'know, your dad's just a fuck. There's no getting around it. You're not, though, trust me."

Stan sniffles, "Well, you'd know, I guess."

Kyle pokes him in the gut, and it makes Stan smile a little as Kyle starts swaying back and forth with him. Then Stan realizes that they can hear the music pouring out from an open window and it's one of those stupidly sickeningly sweet songs that's only meant for slow dancing, and that's exactly what they're doing.

"Oh, my God, we're so gay," Stan laughs a little too desperately, and it makes Kyle hook an arm around his waist and grab his hand in his and start spinning them around with all the grace of a newborn giraffe with a gimp leg. It makes Stan laugh, really laugh this time, and in this moment, above any other, Stan kind of gets the idea of just how much Kyle must really love him.

Not everyone's lucky enough to find someone who'll make a total ass of himself and dance with you in the middle of a parking lot, just to make you smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing and sticking through this story with me! You guys make my life, seriously. I could never express enough gratitude. <strong>

**We have one more part, and then this story's at its end. Again, you guys are all way awesome. **


	14. Epilogue: Two Years Later

**Epilogue- Two Years Later**

When Shelly announces that she's pregnant, it goes a few ways: Cartman practically faints, Sharon insists that she's too young to be a grandmother, and Stan gets this ridiculous look of excitement that would have anyone thinking this was his baby and not his sister's. Kyle takes it pretty much how he thought he would. Eric Cartman and Shelly Marsh have spawned—lock up your valuables and move your loved ones to higher ground.

He does buy a baby book, though, just to get himself on the up and up about a few things. Hell, they might need him and Stan to babysit once the kid's here, right? And fine, in spite of the fact that they have, like no money right now, Stan's been buying shit for this kid like crazy. First it was a teddy bear, then it was a bunch of those soft, spongey books with the big words that kids love, and now it's stuff like onesies and Kyle is actually having a really hard time telling him to stop. They still have the dogs, but apart from giving them actual people food once in a while, they're pretty content with life; it'll be nice to spoil a little human being for once.

Kyle yawns as he checks his watch. Only fifteen minutes left on his shift, and everything's pretty dead right now, which is the worst. He started working as a Genius in the Apple store in the Cherry Creek Shopping Center up in Denver almost a year ago; the pay's pretty decent, which allows him to take care of a lot of the bills while Stan puts himself through school, but they're still pretty strapped for cash when things like food and fun are factored in.

He and Stan try to coordinate schedules as best they can, and Wednesday is usually one of those days where everything lines up perfectly. Kyle gets off work with just enough time to get to the community college to pick up Stan when his class lets out. They get to go eat, sometimes they go see a movie, and then they go home, have sex, and fall asleep, because they're in their twenties and they don't get to have fun yet.

Today's different, though. Shelly went into labor yesterday around one o'clock and, she finally had the baby about two hours ago—a girl, Sharon had sent in her text, with fluffy brown hair and chunky little arms and legs whose name is still to be determined.

"Hey, Kyle," the manager, Dianne, comes out of her office and looks around the store. She's squirrely haired and kind of rabbit faced, but she's nice enough, and she's the only person Kyle's met thus far that's met Stan, seen the bands on their fingers, and not said a single word about it.

Needless to say, Kyle likes her a lot.

"Why don't you get out of here?" she says and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Your sister-in-law had a baby, go be an uncle. We'll be fine here. Jared just got here anyway… go buy a card or some aspirin or some noise cancelling headphones for her, y'know?"

Kyle smiles at her, fiddling with the ring on his left ring finger as he stands, "Thanks."

"And tell everyone congratulations," Christine pats him on the shoulder and turns back toward her office, stopping only to say, "Stan too."

He gives her a thumbs up and goes to grab his stuff out of his locker in back before dashing out of the store and toward his—well, Stan's—car. The Jeep's old and it's taking Kyle time to adjust to driving it, but it's his and Stan's only means of transportation, so Stan's been sharing.

He sends Stan a text to say he's on his way, only to get one back almost immediately. _'Mom picked me up an hr ago. couldn't wait sorry. love you.'_

Kyle rolls his eyes and tosses his phone onto the seat beside him with a smile. He's twenty-five and not entirely sure he's ready to be an uncle, and pretty sure that he couldn't handle being a father just yet (if at all), but both Stan and Cartman are excited by the whole thing.

Then again, Stan and Cartman are both a little insane with their daddy issues, so Kyle just sort of lets it slide.

He speeds to the hospital and runs up to the obstetrics ward instead of taking the elevator, because apparently he's that excited too. When he gets into the waiting room, he's met by Stan, who smiles broadly when he sees him and pushes up off his chair, throwing his arms around him without preamble and pecking a kiss to his lips.

"Hey," Kyle smiles a little and pulls back. Stan looks pretty beat—he was up all night finishing a paper, and as much as Kyle loves him, staying up with him until five in the morning when he has to be up at seven-thirty is a little much, thanks. He runs his fingers through Stan's ridiculously messy hair and bows their heads together, "How is everyone?"

"Fine," Stan yawns. "My mom and Liane went on a dinner run, Shelly's asleep, so it's just been me, Cartman and the baby for a little bit."

"Ugh, how's that?" Kyle can't keep the initial reaction of disgust out of his voice, even if he's calmed a bit over the last couple years. He's still a dick, but between being married and working all the time and now all the baby preparation, it's rechanneled his energy considerably. Not that Kyle would jump at the chance to spend a day with him, but he's had more unpleasant experiences.

Stan, meanwhile, just shrugs and tosses his head back toward the rooms, "Wanna go meet our niece?"

Kyle laughs, "She still doesn't have a name, does she?"

"No," Stan snorts as he takes Kyle's hand and tugs him toward Shelly's room. "Cartman said she needed to take a nap before they made any decisions."

"What an ass," Kyle mutters just as they come to the door and gingerly push their way inside. Shelly's out like a light (Kyle supposes he would be too if he pushed Eric Cartman's demon child out of his body), while Cartman sits, all bleary-eyed and greasy-haired, with his feet propped up against the foot of her bed, cradling the baby in his thick arms.

It's one of those rare moments in which Kyle's reminded that Cartman is, in fact, a human being with emotions and thoughts and feelings, who is indeed capable of loving a baby. He looks up at Stan and Kyle and shifts a little bit, holding the baby closer to him like he never wants to let her go now that he has her.

Kyle just smiles and folds his arms across his chest, all ready to fire off a witty remark, but nothing comes out. It's too good of a moment to spoil, so he just stands there a little impotently and waits for Stan to say something or for a baby to be offered to him.

He doesn't need to hold her, he thinks. Kyle's kind of freaked out by newborns and doesn't really trust himself holding one any more than he trusts himself driving a nice car. He'll hold her maybe once she's got a few miles on her—Kenny can be the first unlucky fuck to drop her; Kyle will not let that be his legacy.

He will not be known as resident baby dropper.

"Here, dude," Stan goes over to Cartman and puts his arms out. "Let me and Kyle see her for a few minutes."

Cartman eyes Kyle warily for a moment before grudgingly handing the baby over to Stan.

"I swear to god, if either of you buttholes drops her…" he begins, but Stan rolls his eyes and flips him off and that somehow shuts him up. Stan walks over to Kyle, cuddling the baby in his arms and smiling so big that it makes Kyle's chest hurt.

"You won't drop her, dude," he whispers then, "She's a little chunky, but she's not that heavy."

Kyle gives Stan a pleading look before looking down at the baby cradled in his arms. She's got a squishy-looking nose and big pink cheeks and she's possibly the fattest little baby Kyle's ever seen, but honestly? Kyle thinks he might be in love just a little bit because when she opens her eyes and looks at him for the first time, she looks a little bewildered and Kyle thinks it's about the cutest thing he's ever seen.

He seizes a bit when Stan passes her off, looking over to Cartman to make sure he's not about to punch him, only to find that he's fast asleep in the exact same position as he was only a few moments before. The baby gurgles a bit, wriggling in her swaddle as Kyle cradles her awkwardly. He's not good with kids like Stan is, and he knows that there's a look of abject terror on his face, but he does his best to play it cool because he does not want this little girl to start crying right now.

"She likes you," Stan says softly, stepping close so he can move quickly if the baby just decides to squirm right out of Kyle's arms.

"I don't like holding babies, dude," Kyle confesses softly, like she even has the capacity to understand what he's saying.

"I know, but," Stan runs his fingers over the wispy tufts of fine brown hair on her head. "We're her uncles, dude. Like, she doesn't have any others. How fucking cool is that? We get to be cool and buy her shit and take her to the movies and stuff."

"Jesus, stop traffic," Kyle chuckles a bit and just sort of gives him a moment to take it all in. It feels a little too official, like a timestamp that initiates their adulthood, and if he couldn't smell Stan's cologne or feel the heat radiating off of him right now he'd probably descend into an hours-long panic attack.

He doesn't, though, and that's because Stan catches him off-guard in a kiss, one that makes Kyle feel all light and airy and keeps both of them from hearing the door open and shut behind them.

"Oh, uh," comes a familiar voice that makes Stan and Kyle break away from each other and turn. "Hi there, boys. I didn't know you were here."

It's Randy. He's standing by the door, looking intensely uncomfortable, and even though Kyle and Stan could both give a fuck about him seeing that, they still both blush like they've just been caught with their hands down each other's pants.

Stan's fine, Kyle knows he is—he's talked to Randy a handful of times since the wedding, seen him during the holidays and stuff like that, but for the most part they're not really close. At least, not close like he is with his mom, or like Kyle is with his parents.

Randy's learning to live with the gay thing, which is good, even if he did say over Christmas (after a few beers, mind) that he truly believes he and Kyle will get tired of being together and eventually settle down with girls and have families of their own.

"Hey, dad," Stan clears his throat a little. "You, uh… you made it."

"Of course I did," Randy offers a smile and walks over. "Wouldn't miss the opportunity to meet my grandkid."

Kyle hands the baby to Stan before Stan goes to hand her to Randy. He'll hold her, but he won't pass her off to anyone but Stan. Stan knows him, can read him like a book, and anywhere he fucks up, Stan's good about swooping in and cleaning it up if need be.

"Jeez, big kid, huh?" Randy laughs, "She's like you, Stan. You were pretty burly when you came out too."

"Right, dad," Stan folds his arms. There's an awkward stretch of silence, during which Randy looks lovingly on the little girl in his arms and Kyle goes to take the extra seat by Cartman, who's taken to snoring like he's sawing logs up in the fucking Dakotas.

"Man, I tell ya," Randy smiles, getting a little choked up now. "The miracle of life, right?"

"Totally," Kyle deadpans, because he can't help it. He doesn't like Randy and he's terrible at being civil to people he doesn't like. Hell, Cartman's on his _good side_ right now, that's how much he's not into being around Randy.

"I know you boys have your thing and everything," Randy begins and Kyle tries very hard not to facepalm because there is no way this is ending well. "But you can't make one of these, no matter how hard you try."

"I'm funding genetic experimentations," Kyle chimes in again, which makes Stan roll his eyes.

"Okay, yeah, can I talk to you outside for a second?" he asks, going over to open the door before Randy even has time to hand the baby off to Kyle. Kyle takes her carefully, comforted at least by the fact that he's sitting down, and watches Stan and Randy talk rather animatedly through the window at the front of the room.

"Oy, this family sometimes, girl," Kyle sighs and sits back. The baby is looking up at him again, eyes all owl-like and curious, like she's trying to make sense of the sounds Kyle's making, so he keeps on, "That's your grandpa. He's kind of a fuckhead, and he irritates the shit out of almost everyone, but he means well, okay? And your uncle's out there talking to him… uh, your other uncle, I guess. The one you're actually related to. He loves you more than he's ever loved another person before, I think, and you've only been here for a few hours. I've known him my _whole life_, okay? That's saying a lot. And your parents over here," he turns the baby so she can see Shelly and Cartman both sacked out in their respective places, "Your mom's kind of a pain in the ass, and your dad's a total hard-on, but your grandmas are pretty cool. And me too. I'm pretty much the coolest uncle you'll ever have."

Even if he knows it's not true. Stan's about a thousand times cooler with kids than he is, and he only feels a little guilty having probably told this little girl the first lie she's ever heard.

"The point is," he continues, "We may irritate the ever-loving fuck out of you, but no one'll ever be able to say that you're not loved."

"Are you spouting your gay all over my daughter?" Cartman grunts, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"All over her," Kyle nods and smiles at her.

"Well, at least you're not talking to her like she's retarded," Cartman stirs and yawns then before he holds out his arms to take her back. "I swear to god if my mom thinks she can get away with baby-talking I'm gonna kick her in the throat."

"You're mad at your mother for infantilizing your newborn," Kyle says very frankly. "You're hearing yourself, right?"

"Fuck off," Cartman scowls. "She's my baby, I do what I want."

Kyle laughs at that and sinks a little in his chair when he looks over at Stan and Randy. It doesn't look like it's going well.

"Ah, shit," he gives a resigned sigh and pushes up off the chair. "Hey, we'll probably stop by tomorrow, but I think I need to grab Stan before he goes for the throat."

"No please," Cartman scowls, "Let him make another one of my major life events all about him."

"I told you he was a hard-on," Kyle says to the baby and ducks down to kiss her on the forehead, even if Cartman tells him to fuck off because he's going to give her herpes or something. Kyle flips him off and grabs Stan's school bag and coat off of the floor by the door before he goes out into the hallway.

"Uh, hey," Kyle interjects amid the heated exchange. "Randy, you should go say hi. Stan and I were going to go eat anyway."

He grabs Stan's hand before he can object and tells him not to worry, that they'll come back tomorrow, that he's okay, that everything's okay, and that he'll let him have top tonight if he just calms the fuck down.

"You know the worst part about this?" Stan groans as they get to the car.

"What's that?" Kyle asks back very calmly as they get inside. He doesn't start up yet, but reaches over and starts rubbing the back of Stan's neck. If it doesn't get him to stop altogether, it'll at least get him to calm down a little bit.

"He really is never going to change, is he," it's more of a statement than question—softer now that Kyle's hands are on him.

"Nope," Kyle shakes his head.

"Like," Stan continues. "God forbid we ever had kids, you know? He'd either never leave me alone or he wouldn't think it was real or some shit."

"Dude, who the fuck cares what he thinks?" Kyle groans. "You're not living your life to impress your dad, y'know? Hell, you're not even living your life for me or your mom or the people you actually like either, though, so."

"I know," Stan mutters and smacks his head against the seat. "Just frustrating."

"I know, dude," Kyle says, softer this time, and leans over to kiss him. "You know what I think we should do?"

"Mm, what?" Stan yawns and rests his head against Kyle's shoulder.

"Pick up some Thai, go home, and watch The Last Crusade," he says and pets Stan's hair.

"Fucking Jesus, that sounds like an orgy of fun," Stan agrees wholeheartedly, and Kyle laughs. He'll never get over being able to make Stan happy—Stan makes him so happy to begin with that Kyle figures the least he could to is spend his life trying to make him happy in return.

They'll go home, they'll get into their pajamas and eat and watch their movie. The dogs will climb all over them and lap at their faces and try to get any remnants of pad thai that they can. They'll have sex, they'll fall asleep, and tomorrow, when they have time, they'll go back and visit Shelly and Cartman and their niece again. Because even if their first day with her got kind of torched at the last minute, Stan and Kyle have the rest of their lives to be the coolest uncles she's ever seen.

Because Stan and Kyle love each other, and they have an awesome life together, and if anything she'll at least know them as the two happiest people she's ever met.

* * *

><p><strong>Ahh! So we're finally at an end. I'd like to thank everyone for sticking around and reading this. I've loved writing Style with everything in me and I'm happy that people have enjoyed it. <strong>

**Seriously, you're all great. I hope I'll see you over at my new Bunny fic, _Blame it on the Boys, _if indeed Bunny is your thing. If not, maybe I'll lure you in with any of my other endeavors. Love you all! Thanks for helping make this fic so much fun to write. **


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